The Taste of Metal
by mysticxf
Summary: Things are immediately askew when the Doctor takes Clara to a planet full of robots, but the Doctor doesn't know how much until his companion goes missing and returns an entirely different model.
1. Bronze for Gold

Transit Authority: Dock 11

Walter was about as unsure of this visit as he was about everything else in life. His hands rub each other red in his lap as their ship locks into port and off-loading instructions begin. Swallowing hard, he glances out the window at the grey sky that's tinged with just a hint of blue and the giant gaseous planet in the distance that was keeping this rock in orbit. He closes his eyes, trying to control his breathing and wipes the ginger curls from his forehead. If he couldn't take this one trip, he definitely couldn't be a space explorer and that was his goal.

It was a laughable goal, or so he'd been told by friends, but it was his. Sure, everyone was pretty much a space traveler these days in the new human race, with settlements as far as they could fly, but Walter was going to see things no one had ever seen before. He planned to chart the unknown and prove the universe had an edge, an end point, where the newness was so new he could watch it form before his eyes. His lips perk into a small smile as he daydreams about the darkness and vastness spread out before him, but the joy is short-lived as he's backhanded roughly in the chest.

"Oy, space man, let's get a move on!"

The broken voice comes from his mate Chuckie, and he finds himself looking up into large bright green eyes and a playful crooked grin. The other boy nods his head towards the front of the ship and Walter glances ahead, seeing the other students departing to the small moon's surface.

"We won't need suits, will we?" Walter asks apprehensively, feeling foolish as soon as he does; he knows they don't, he'd read it on the websites.

He receives an eye roll and another thwap. "Come on, chubby, it's your first moon landin'."

With a less than reassured laugh, Walter takes the backpack his friend hands him and shifts out of the seat, making his way down the aisle behind the other boy, who is moving swiftly towards the exit. Walter wants to document it all, the way the air smells, the way the ground feels under his feet, the kinds of people that live there, and the kinds of food they eat. The anticipation pounds in his chest as he hands his identification and trip pass to the guardsmen at the front of the ship and again to the ones in the decompression chamber hooked to their ship.

He finds himself in a room with Chuckie, and the doors behind him slide shut as they move down a level and then they are released into the rush of the main hub of the docking station. There are windows to the ground level outside and he peers out through squinted eyes, seeing the slippery metal surfaces of the ground and the tall spires of shining buildings towering over everything in the distance.

"Remember to breathe," Chuckie teases, grabbing him by his jacket and yanking him past the other students from their class. "Honestly, dad said this trip was rubbish. Said we'd get more culture out of Akhetan, but I bet he doesn't realize our school's a pile of rubbish built on a giant rubbish heap."

Walter huffs a laugh and struggles to keep up with Chuckie as he weaves around people and garbage cans, or maybe they were… Walter turns and catches a glimpse of a pair of eyes searching into his and he slams into a large hard object that made a hollow clunk when he'd hit it. Stumbling back, he apologizes, but when he looks forward, he finds himself staring up at a robot nearly the size of a man, frozen in place. Walter adjusts the backpack on his shoulders and sniffles lightly, putting a hand to his chest where he'd hit the thing. He pokes a finger into the main body of the robot, jerking back slightly as he waits for a response, but it remains still, looking out over the crowd.

Like a statue.

One that makes him afraid to turn away.

"It's just an old Automan B721, probably dead," Chuckie assures, ripping him away from it and moving towards a set of doors that lead to the outside world. "Figure we got about a half hour before they start looking for us. Maybe we can find something more interesting to write about than the museum of junked parts we're here to see."

"It's an Historical Monument to Robotronics Advancement," Walter corrects as they step forward, standing in the whoosh of air that enters when the doors swoop open. The fear of what he knew they were doing squelches any excitement he might have had for the moment, and what met him made him thankful he couldn't be more disappointed. The air was thick, smelling of sulfur and over-chlorinated water and it burned his nostrils and throat as he took in his first full breath.

"Bloody hell," Chuckie spits, moving forward. Coughing, Walter keeps a hand up to his face as they walk out into the street.

Everything is a different shade of metal, and his breath is sour in his lungs, but the people walking about seem strangely oblivious to it. He observes them, looking for some sign that they were wearing discrete air purifiers, but they simply seem... at home.

Walter can see the monorail above them where the rest of the class was presumably riding off to the museum they'd visited the moon to see. Eyes falling back to his bleak surroundings, he shivers in the dampness of the streets and looks over the shiny blotches of warped rainbows worn into the building walls from years of heat and moisture. He watches the water drip down their sides, puddling on the black asphalt beneath their feet.

Chuckie clears his throat, expelling a wad of gunk on the ground and snorts, "It's a junk yard," sounding more disappointed than disgusted.

Walter glances up, seeing the top of a sparkling building so far away. According to his technology teacher, it is the database of all artificial life has known for as far as it could travel. They were going to take a tour of one of the signal receiver rooms. He sighs, wishing he were there. "The city was founded by advanced robotic technology, the greatest in artificial intelligence…"

"Stop spewin' the brochure at me, monkey boy. It's a junk yard full of spare parts."

Pointing upward, Walter tells him brightly, "We could catch the next monorail to the museum; just tell them we got lost and see the history we're _supposed_ to be seeing… you know, to write the report for class?"

Chuckie glances back at him and laughs, "And miss the chance to pinch somethin' here that'll fetch us a few quid back home?"

"No one's gonna pay for this stuff," Walter tells him, kicking at an odd object on the ground that sings sharply as it bounces hard along the street.

"Sirs, how may I be of assistance?" A robotic voice askes nearby, startling them both.

Walter glances at the small round bronze robot. Its body has a tubby cylinder shape that was colored the same as his hair and it wore a domed head out of which two bright white beams watch them. He examines it for any markings to denote where it's from or what it even is, but they've been scratched off with age. Even so, he knows, they need to get back to their class and the moon was notorious for its helpful bots.

"We need directions on how to get onto the monorail," Walter starts, but Chuckie interrupts.

"Take us to see something spectacular," he stares, wide-eyed and waiting, as though the robot were going to open its chest to display diamonds and the sight of his friend almost makes him laugh.

The robot shakes slightly as mechanical parts whir about inside of it. It moves forward and Chuckie begins to turn, but Walter knows what it's doing. He'd read about it. A blueish beam shoots out from its eyes and warms a spot at the tops of their heads before quickly flickering down over their bodies.

Walter jerks back slightly, shouting, "What are you scanning us for?"

"Physical specifications necessary for queried recommendations."

"What?" Chuckie askes it.

"Just tell us how to get to the monorail," Walter tells it bluntly.

But Chuckie shoves him, "No, you can take the stinkin' monorail – sign's right there, go follow it like a good little dog. I'll be finding something shiny and expensive." He turns to the robot. "Take me somewhere I can find a scrap of gold."

"That's just a story," Walter warns. He'd heard it a thousand times, people coming to the moon to look for supposed gold treasure and getting lost outside of the city. No one looks for those who leave the city, it's not even worth their time, or their lives.

Chuckie shrugs, "What if it's not, Walt? Every story has some truth, right? This place is full of all kinds of crap – why not gold. It'd mean nothing to this heap of metal." He waves at the robot still perched in front of them. "You there, gold, come on," he hisses.

After a moment of hesitation, the robot responds brightly, "Affirmative, sirs," and rolls along the street and then turns onto another.

Chuckie laughs, voice cracking, and he jogs to catch up while Walter looks between another monorail train slipping away in the direction of the central city, and the back of the boy who is turning a corner behind the small robot. With a breath of resignation, Walter takes off after his friend, turning the same corner and catching a glimpse of the other boy's jacket and he rushes forward, taking a turn, and then another, trying to follow the whirring sounds of the robot's wheels and the splashes of feet through puddles.

But he's easily lost amongst the unfamiliar back alleys. He stops, looking up at the grey sky through the dark buildings around him and shouts out to Chuckie, waiting for a response. He backtracks, trying to find his way back to the station, but he knows he was only putting himself further into the labyrinth. Walter pushes a hand into his pocket and removes his portable phone, searching for a signal and curses under his breath when he realizes there was simply too much interference from the robotics around him.

"Sir, how may I be of assistance?"

The voice makes him jump and he lookes down at the robot that waited, a few feet away for a response and then he considers it – shouldn't it remember him? Maybe it did and that was its standard response? Could it be a different robot? "I'm lost," he tells it with an air of annoyance.

"Sir, how may I be of assistance?" It repeats.

He releases a frustrated breath and asks, "How can I get back to the monorail?"

The robot approaches him, the white of its eyes expanding. "There are much more interesting things, sir," it tells him.

"I'm not looking for… just tell me how to get to the monorail!" He shouts, feeling his chest shaking with anger as he watches the robot roll forward another foot in his direction.

A small set of antennae shot up from its head suddenly and Walter shifts backwards, finding himself pressed against the cold wet metal behind him as the robot approached. He'd never seen a set of scanners like the ones this robot had, but he'd heard of something else – something sinister.

Something that no robot should have.

"There are much more interesting things," the robot repeats, and the antennae began to spark with electricity.

Chuckie turnes another corner and stops, kicking at the wall beside him and then wincing in pain. Everything on the moon was made of metal, he reminds himself, biting his lip through the pain before limping lightly back onto a main street.

"Walter!" He shouts, hands cupped against his face to amplify his voice in the stiff air.

Movement catches his eye and he let out an angry chuckle, approaching the robot that was wheeling its way quickly towards him. Knowing it was going to sting, he lands a rough kick to its copper shell and then turns away as to not let the thing see his pain. Then he turned back.

"Fat lot of good you are!" He shrieks, then asks, "Where's Walter?"

"Walter," the robot tells him.

"Ya, tin head, _my friend_. Where is he?"

"Walter," the robot repeats.

Waving his hands at the thing, Chuckie shakes his head and begins walking away. The robot starts to follow, repeating his friend's name until he breaks into a run, escaping its eerie chant. Watching the boy make his way towards the monorail station, the robot tries its hardest to catch up, but its wheels were rusting and its motor was burning out.

"Walter." The robot repeats, struggling and shaking as it remains alone in the street, water dripping down from the buildings and onto its domed bronze hood. The droplets circle its eye sockets and flowed downwards like tear drops as it gargled out words, over and over.

"Walter. I. Am. Walter."


	2. A Faulty Tardis

There's always a soothing hum massaging her feet with each step she takes, and there's a strange warble that tickles her ears every time the tubes at the console center pass over one another as they move synchronically day and night to keep the ship adrift. There was the occasional wheezy suction noise and the clanging of something that sounded miles away, or miles inside, and there were the steady clicks and knocks of the buttons and levers being worked.

But something was off.

Clara had dismissed it as some sort of cabin fever, telling herself that there really was no possible way she could suspect something was wrong with the ship when its captain, the man who pranced carelessly about its center, seemed as unconcerned as ever. But it irked her as they made their way past stars and suns, travelling aimlessly in time.

The Doctor flips a switch and slaps an object in front of him and that devilish smile of his – the one that at once jabs infinite terror and absolute joy into her heart – momentarily flickers over his face.

"You're staring again," he half sings, one eyebrow rising underneath the thick swipe of hair permanently set over his long brow as he continued watching her out of the corner of his eye.

Of course he would notice her, peering at him from the stairs. Not budging to board the main deck. With a look of concern souring her face.

"I am not," she sings back, gripping the railing at either side and giving him a smile as she pulls herself up the metal pathway and onto the main floor with him.

As if he hadn't done his share of staring, she thought to herself, remembering the first days of their time together. She'd caught him often, looking her over – not with any sort of admiration, but with concern and just a smidge of confusion – the same way he looked at a puzzle before he'd figured it out, or an eight headed four foot tall bug he'd found on a planet they'd landed on for lunch recently.

Pressing his palms into the edge of the console, he leans forward, twisting his body slightly towards her and he announces, "Come on then, tell me what's on your mind," and he added with an air of mischievousness, "I _have_ told you I'm a fantastic listener – and I did teach Freud a thing or two about psychoanalysis. Of course, he was preoccupied with the size of my," he removes the Sonic from his pocket and waves it with a grin before abruptly pocketing the object as though something had crossed his mind.

She deduces and grins as he blushes.

The notion of the expanse of his mind and all of its crisscrossing circuits dancing about one another tickles her as she stands at the console and stares at the glowing greens and blues. There was the occasional splash of red and she wrinkles her nose at the color, gesturing at it all, glancing up at the monstrosity that stretched up into the ceiling before asking, "Can she get sick?"

"Can wha…? Can the _Tardis_ get sick? Impossible." He laughs, then asks in a light, yet cautious, tone, "Why would you ask that?"

"Well you talk to her like she's an actual real thing, so I'm taken to suppose she is an actual real thing and actual real things can get sick…" she lets the words die off with the thought and she watches the amusement fade from his face in that way it does sometimes where his eyes suddenly look old and his age becomes almost palpable in the air. "Do you get sick?" She askes abruptly – not to diverge, but out of pure curiosity. "I've never seen you sick and I know it hasn't been that long of a time, but people get sick."

"Ah," he raises a finger, "But I'm not people."

"Ya," she remembers, "You're not human."

He seems somewhat hurt by the assertion, turning away from her and toying with a knob in front of him until it snaps into place and the ship gives a small lurch. "I can get sick; she can get sick. Sickness isn't limited to the mortal," he tells her solemnly.

"So you're immortal," Clara offers, moving beside him to nudge his elbow with her shoulder and she watches his eyes drift over to meet hers, a small nod and smile. "What's that like, immortality?"

"Well, technically, I can die. I could be blasted by a gamma ray cannon and then get blown up before the regeneration cycle kicks in…" and for a moment she understands he's explored the scenarios, imagined them to analyze and escape them. "Or I could be thrown into a sun and…"

"Come off it, you're immortal," Clara teases to stop him from thinking out loud any further, then repeats, "What's it like?"

"Fantastic!" He exclaims, but she watches his mind work over the answer and the brightness that illuminated his face in the second before weakens slightly as he explains, "To have all of time within your reach, to know the adventure of living never ends…"

"Forever is a long time," she interrupts sadly, fingers tracing a circular pattern etched into the panel in front of her before she looks up, seeing the defeat on his face, and half whispers, "It must be lonely."

He only smiles.

Not the smirk with the boyish charm he uses to persuade people to be amazing, or the manic smile he flashes when he's just been clever, or the smug grin when he's feeling accomplished. A genuinely accepting smile – as though she'd settled upon something more fascinating than the universe around them. "I can never be lonely as long as I have a companion along."

Narrowing her eyes at him, she asks, "And what will you do when I'm gone? I can't stay forever, you know," she points out, not anticipating the sorrow she finds in his features – as though he had already felt the loss of her presence, were already preparing for it.

There's a silent laugh and he tugs on a lever while turning a joystick. "Same as always."

"Are we so replaceable?" Clara challenges and he turns fully away from the console, a chord struck somewhere that puts a flame in his eyes. "You pick someone up and show them the stars and when you've tired of them, you drop them back off – and then find another?"

"Clara," he calls, quietly, and something about the way he says her name wets her eyes. "Clara, every person I bring aboard this ship is _irreplaceable_. It's because of your _uniqueness_ that I have to eventually let our adventure come to an end."

"The mortal cannot travel with the gods forever," Clara allows with a tight smirk.

He nods, "I've had quite a few companions, and they've given me a lifetime of memories – of love, and pain, and joy, and magnificent surprises. Clara, you can't even begin to… Each of you is your own endless vortex of unimaginable strength and courage and life spilling out with every action, every word, every challenge that strides across your path." He leans again, looking haggardly in the dim blue glow washing over them. "And eventually I have to choose between selfishly keeping you until an inevitable and _untimely_ end, or selflessly giving you up to continue in your own time while I continue in mine, and I will always choose – if given the choice – to allow for the parting of ways." The Doctor sighs and there's silence for what seems like an eternity before he nods and finishes, "It is the most _difficult_ part of the journey, and yet it is the most _necessary_ part of the journey."

Clara looks up at the Tardis, listens to the labored breaths it takes as they meander aboard her, and she sighs, "Is that why she gets jealous?"

"Jealous?" The Doctor spits in a tone of surprise.

"She doesn't like me," Clara nods at the machine that, for a moment, flows with a burst of yellow. "She doesn't like me because I'm just next in your long line of companions. And yeah, there's the bit where I think she doesn't trust me, but I reckon she's jealous, and she gets moreso with every new companion because when she opens those doors, we leave to explore, you and I. And we leave her behind." Clara waits, testing his reaction before she proclaims, "She's lonely, Doctor."

"She's _sick_," he corrects, pointing an accusing finger at her. "You mistook jealousy for sickness. And that's the questions and the concern."

"Well, Jealousy is a sickness of sorts." Clara touches the console, watching the section beneath her fingers flutter with red and orange, but she stubbornly refuses to move her hand. "Maybe she tires of being left behind. If she's anywhere near as old as yourself," he gives her a look, "It's a terribly long time to watch those who accompany _you_ get to experience the time and space _she_ was designed to travel through."

"She's _not_ lonely," The Doctor asserts, but she watches his hand stroke the machine apologetically – as she'd observed before – and she does the same, trying a soothing set of soft pats that are greeted with a loud clonging that echoes through the air around them. "She's the only companion I will have forever," the Doctor admits solemnly.

Clara smiles when she realizes that while the Doctor was speaking, he was not speaking to her, but to the assortment of mechanics in front of him. He turns to her before flicking a switch and rolling his palm over an orb and then claps his hands together, rubbing them as he approaches her, hunched slightly and looking diabolical.

"What?" She immediately asks, eyes wide, and she finds herself looking to the Tardis herself for help, but she only gives a long whurp that ends in a muted explosion of energy charging into energy somewhere in her bowels.

"I've just had a thought. Outermost ring of Fursya, a technological Mecca for androids and the outcast souls of robots passed. Literally, souls of the irreparably damaged, floating around in a gassy haze looking for new storage units to inhabit," then he considers it, "Well, maybe that's just a story, but..."

"A robot doesn't have a soul!" Clara tells him incredulously as he turns and begins to steer the Tardis towards their new destination.

The Doctor gives her a chin grin and tells her pointedly, "Just a moment ago you were quite disturbed by the notion that my Tardis could be lonely, could be jealous, and you don't equate that with her having a soul?"

"But she's the Tardis. _Special build_!"

"Everything in the universe is _special build_, Clara," he tells her knowingly, and she only nods, quickly gripping the metal in front of her when the ship shifts suddenly, lurching and spinning through space and Clara listens as the momentum of sounds around her picks up. The churning of the engines is as boisterous as the shouts of glee coming from the man at the controls.

And then it comes to a quick halt, the shaking weightless feeling replaced by the solidity of a planet underneath their feet and Clara shares a smile with the Doctor, glancing towards the door, and asks, "Fursya?"

He moves quickly, passing her while rattling off, "Fursya's the planet keeping this moon in orbit, no, no, Clara, the planet isn't interesting at all. Too warm for human life – too acidic – but this moon? _This_ moon, the first and greatest colony of abandoned, delivered, old exploratory, and even vacationing, robots, has a name – it's simply unpronounceable." He smiles at her as he reaches the front doors, waiting for her to make her way down the ramp to stand before him. "It's robot speak for 'The Achievable Dream' and it's right outside."

"Well then, enough with the words," Clara tells him matter-of-factly, pressing past him to grip the handle on the door and allow that pang of electricity bolt her stomach as she pushes open and immediately coughs. All she can think is that the air isn't done – like a half-baked cake – and she covers her mouth with a hand, glancing up at the Doctor, who wears a look of glee, despite this.


	3. The Mechanical Planet

"Look around, Clara!" He does a quick twirl as he exits the Tardis and turns to stand, arms open, smile wide, as he waits for her opinion for a fraction of a second before telling her, "Terra-forming's a bit sluggish – that's the bitterness in the air – but it was only created for the tourists. Tourists from all over the galaxy who come to explore the land and visit the Historical Monument to Robotronics Advancement, a museum of the entire history of artificial intelligence throughout the galaxy that holds the largest receivers of all learned information transmitted by participating robotics, creating _the_ most complete encyclopedia of robotic investigation!"

He gapes a moment, waiting for her nod of approval before continuing, wrapping his hands before moving forward with her at his tail, "And then you have the traders. Not always the most pleasant folk, who come to trade scraps and bot parts, and search for the fabled gold hidden away in pockets of this place nicked from those robots made for the wealthiest in the universe…"

His words blend with the clangs of metal on metal around her and the rapid speaking of those on the streets selling books and bits and she smiles politely as someone offers her a sparkling whirring piece of electronics for a form of money she'd never heard of. The ragged man continues walking when he realizes she doesn't truly understand, and her eyes follow him down the darkly paved road lined with steel slabs that reach into the sky and dripped eerily with water.

Clara's eyebrows rise as she looks upwards to the sky – which could easily have been made of sheets of frosted aluminum – and when she looks back, she watches the Doctor stop, glancing at the robots and patrons that make their way past.

"Planet full of shiny things, it's a wonder you don't call this home," she tells him quickly, smirking at the notion that he would be like a child in a toy store in a place like this, but when she glances upon his face, she sees he is no longer amused.

He is conflicted. And she's seen that face many times before. This trip, like so many before, was no longer what it should have been when he flipped the lever on the Tardis to impress her with a planet, or moon. It was a problem to be solved, and obviously the Doctor would be the one to solve it. She readies herself because she's frightened – something she could never admit to him – and when he shifts to look to her, her heart jumps slightly, but she remains constrained for him.

"Something's wrong here," he speaks, but it's to the moon around him.

Clara nods, "Yes, it's full of robots." She feels clever, but he ignores her.

A couple moves past, arms locked, laughing with each other as the Doctor's brow furrows and he continues, "Very happy humans and very sad robots," he gestures to a medium sized downtrodden bot with silver stripes as it slowly makes its way over the sidewalk, one clunky leg shifting after the other around a building.

"Robots can't be sad," Clara tells him, but she gets the impression her knowledge is impeded by the limits of her time. "Robots can't be sad," she repeats curiously, "Can they, Doctor?"

"You thought the Tardis was sick." He shoots her a quick grin then reminds her, "Robots can be anything you program them to be."

But she steels her face in a mirror of his smugness and declares stubbornly as she remembers something that might be foolish, but worth pointing out to at least find out if it's true, "Doctor, robots can't be sad, isn't there a law, or a rule or something, written into their coding? They live to serve others – _see serving,_"she gestures at a robot asking a human if they're in need of assistance," – they should be satisfied. _Happy_."

He shakes his moment of pleasure away and waves an arm, "And yet, they're sad. _Why are they sad_?" The question is pained and pointed as he moves closer to her.

"They're not sad, they're _robots_!" she responds in an exasperated tone to match his own.

And Clara realizes, when he interrupts with, "Let's ask one!" that her argument has been all but forgotten.

She sighs, knowing it was pointless from the start, as she rushes to follow him towards a larger robot standing facing a wall, an odd sight in itself. They remain a moment, staring at the large metal man and Clara watches him Sonic it up and down, quickly reading something on the silly device before pocketing it.

"Excuse me," the Doctor asserts, "Excuse me, I am in need of assistance."

The robot shifts, its gears turning and working roughly as it takes two steps to turn sideways and another two to face them. "How may I assist you?" The question is weak and Clara stares at the tin man questioningly because the Doctor is right – _it seems sad_.

"What is your purpose?" He asks, arms folding, one hand already dipping into a pocket to grasp the Sonic Screwdriver deep in his pocket, ready to examine the robot again at the slightest sight of change.

There's a moment of silence as the bot considers the question – to Clara it almost seems lost in confusion – and it explains, "I am a host."

Lifting one hand, open palmed, the Doctor presses for more, "A host of what? For information, to entertain? _Explain_."

The robot stares at them. "How may I assist you?"

"Answer the question," the Doctor responds, voice low.

Clara raises a hand slightly, both gaining the robot's attention and the Doctor's curiosity. "How may you assist us?" Then she adds, "What is your function?"

Something sparks inside the robot and it watches her before telling her, "I am a guide. Would you like to visit the museum?"

At that moment, a small bronze robot bumps roughly into Clara, sending her into the robot in front of her with a loud bang. Clara pushes off the metal and looks to the smaller robot the Doctor is already scanning as it backs away and does a turn. It seems panicked.

_Panicked_, Clara tells herself, a robot can't _panic_. And just as quickly as it had rushed into her, it zips away as the Doctor examines his readings.

"Anything of interest?" Clara questions.

He doesn't answer her, simply turns to the robot and asks quietly, "What is your name?"

"Name?" Clara asks.

The robot says the same.

"What is your _designation_? Your make? Your model? What are you?" The Doctor clarifies.

"I am one of many, I have no designation, make, or model." He pauses and then asks again, "Would you like to visit the museum?"

The Doctor smiles and answers slowly, "Yes, yes, we would like to visit the museum."

Two more steps and the robot is facing the asphalt and he steps out onto it, leading them. Clara hesitates and the Doctor turns to look at her, a smile on his face, "Well, come along!"

She rushes forward and he offers his arm. When she slips hers through his, he gives her a reassuring squeeze and she feels foolish. Of course she's safe, she's with him! But every heavy step the robot in front of them makes chips at that assurance and as they pass through the streets, towards what looks like a monorail station, she's found that she's back to being just a tiny bit terrified.

Clara glances at the outside of what seems to be the train station – possibly some kind of docking station as she can see ships overhead and sees the commotion of new arrivals – and she notices posters.

They're Missing posters.


	4. Separation City

They haven't changed much between her time and whatever time this was: smiling faces of people who've gone lost and a few bits of information about them. Some have reward amounts, others just the pleas of loved ones. Frowning, she tries to read the names, wants to turn and ask the Doctor if it should be relevant – there are so many, but when they stop, she simply smiles as the robot raises an arm onto the platform.

"You will find the museum on the list of destinations aboard. Have a wonderful day."

"Thank you, robot with no name," the Doctor tells it, giving its right shoulder a hollow sounding set of pats.

He hops onto the platform and displays his psychic paper as their pass and they are lead onto a sleek looking train, towards the front and offered what Clara assumes to be the choicest seats aboard. She waits until the quicker, more agile robot that had escorted them makes his way back to another compartment to lean forward, gaining the Doctor's attention.

"What's going on here?" She asks him in a firm, but quiet voice, turning her head slightly and giving him a smile.

He leans in and mimics her expression, "Synthetic, life forms."

"Well yes, they're robots," comes her immediate response.

"No, I mean, they're synthetic, but they're also life forms. The implications of organic souls trapped within the metal confines of the robotic body."

Clara watches him deftly, and then asks quickly, "I'm not sure if you're trying to affirm that what you told me earlier about machines and souls on the Tardis is correct, or if you're trying to imply that something is wrong with what you told me earlier on the Tardis. Expand upon your explanation, please."

He seems amused and impressed, and gives a shake of his head, leaning back in the chair and glancing out through the window as the train begins to move swiftly and smoothly over the track towards what looks like a larger, cleaner, city in the distance. "Anything created to think for itself has, in essence, been created with a soul – but there's a disconnect here, the soul trapped within the metal can is… to put it simply… not original parts."

"Can they transplant souls?" Clara asks, leaning back and facing towards the window, but watching him out of the corner of her eye. And a thought occurs. "Can a human soul be put into a robot's body?"

The question strikes something because he flinches and glances her way, smiling to cover it, but she's caught it and she's curious. It's always as if she's reminding him of something else and the frustration of not knowing is reaching the point where it's about to surpass the respect in not asking.

She repeats the question pointedly, and slowly – ever so slowly – he nods. "That's not necessarily what's happened on this planet. I told you before, a robot dies, sometimes what makes it tick doesn't go down without a fight. It searches out some new home, some new robot. That could be the disconnect – an unfortunate soul displeased with its new home, but stuck with the understanding that…"

"No," Clara says abruptly. "No, you're concerned because there are happy _people_ and sad _robots_."

"Yes."

"Happy _people_…"

It's quick, the thought turning in her mind, but he's quicker, raising a finger as a robot comes to offer them drinks and they politely decline.

Clara takes her cue from the Doctor and continues looking out the window for the duration of their short trip, waiting until they've stopped at the entrance to the city, where the walls have gone from the swirls of muddy brown and oddly warped fuchsia's and blue's, to glistening silver and white that perfectly reflect the world around them. She spots traces of gold on building corners and other embellishments and is lost in thought about them as they exit, failing to follow the Doctor as he makes his way out into the city.

_Don't wander off_.

His voice is clear in her head and she feels her cheeks go pink even in his absence. "Doctor?" Clara cries, trying to disguise the panic in her voice as others look in her direction. Obviously it's a quiet place. A place of order. She's pushed along, seeing the flop of hair as his head turns, noticing he's lost his companion, and she calls out again.

"Shouldn't make noise," a robot buzzes at her from her feet.

"I need to get back to my friend, he's gone out the exit over there and I've missed it," she points back, but can no longer see the doors.

"Follow along," it tells her. "Follow along to the next exit. You will find them outside."

She smiles down at the red and black bot that wheels smoothly beside her with purpose. It seems happy enough, she thinks to herself as she calms. It is that simple: go out the next exit, meet the Doctor outside, and they can head to the museum and finish their little investigation.

There's the question of what they're investigating, and why they're investigating it, but there hasn't been an adventure yet that ends in a stalemate and Clara finds comfort in that, though she's not sure if she should.

It's been a dangerous journey and she finds herself questioning the decision she made to board the big blue box with the charming man and his ridiculous Cheshire grin. It's not the first time she's conflicted about her time with the Doctor – she does it in every moment she's allowed to stop and consider her situation. She's in a city made of metal, inhabited by odd robots and odder people, and she's lost. Clara feels the small bot at her side pushing into her, pressing her towards the wall at her right, and when she glances down at it, it's nodding knowingly at her, as much as it's odd domed head can nod. She decides to trust it and moves deftly between tin exteriors and giddy chatter of getting off-world.

And soon she's through a set of double doors that invite a slightly less putrid smell into her lungs. The change in atmosphere is surprising, though she suspects she shouldn't have been surprised – whatever processors are churning the air, making it livable for non-animatronic beings, would be working overtime in the biggest tourism center.

The museum stands above all of the other buildings and she finds herself gaping up at it in awe. The twirling spire that twists its way into the grey sky sparkles in the light from the distant star that warms her skin.

"Your friend will be at the museum," the bot tells her.

Clara laughs, "He wouldn't just abandon me here to fend for myself." But in the back of her mind, she knows it's absolutely possible.

The bot stops next to her as she looks over the dwindling crowds outside of the station. Clara can't see the floppy mop of brown hair, or the exasperated look his face would hold, or the green glow of his Sonic. She imagines by now he should have climbed atop something, should be shouting her name, but there's silence and no sign of the Doctor.

"Your friend will be at the museum," the bot repeats. "I can be of assistance?"

Turning to look down at the red can, Clara presses her fists into her sides and nods. "Take me to the museum, please."

It hums pleasantly and its eye stalks turn a brilliant blue as it begins to move forward along the street and Clara follows. She practically skips, because despite the strangeness of the place, and the obvious impending doom they'll inevitably face, she's on the moon of a planet that's in a distant future, and populated with robots, and that's cool.

His voice is in her mind again, as is his foolish grin. She imagines he'd pat one on the head and declare, "_Robots are cool_."

Even though some of them try to kill you, like Daleks; some try to upgrade you, like Cybermen; and some try to suck your brain into their world wide web, like the Great Intelligence.

Clara turns a corner behind the bot and then another and she loses sight of the museum's glow through the darkening walls of the narrowing alleyways. "You lost?" She questions.

"Negative," the robot responds quickly, leading her around another turn.

Managing a giggle, she teases, "You are lost, I know it."

"Negative," the robot repeats, turning its head to look up at her as it comes to a stop. "I am exactly where I need to be."

Glancing around, Clara shrugs, arms coming up and then flapping back down against her hips. "We're not at the museum."

"We are exactly where I need to be."

It's the moment where she knows she should run. Everything inside of her is screaming it, but it's also the moment where she knows it's just a moment too late. Antennae zip out from the top of the bot's round head and there's a blinding flash and a sizzle of warm pain inside of her chest that radiates outward. She starts to scream, but the sound is muted and her eyes close against the sensation.

And then there's silence.

Clara keeps her eyes shut tightly, registering her surroundings through her other senses. There's a gently howl of wind through the buildings. The air is no longer putrid; the air is no longer anything recognizable. Her skin is solid. _Her skin is solid_. Eyes flashing open, she wheels back, slamming into a wall with a clank and she does it again, waiting for the pain of it – the feel of it – but that doesn't come.

_Oh this is strange._

Clara can't speak. She makes a sound like a growl. _Mechanical_. And then she's moving again, forward, towards the metal of the building across the small alleyway and she hits it, her chest banging into it with another hollow crash. Her vision is wrong, blue and cluttered, and she tries to shake her head, feeling the weight of it as it twists on its base with a soft squeak in each direction.

_No, no, no, no, no._

She can't form words, so she just inches forward again, slower, and looks at the reflection in the metal there, seeing herself. _Impossible. _Clara stares into the brightening eye stalks of the robot she'd been following. She's inside of a robot. She can't be inside of a robot. Where was _she_? Turning, wheels grinding against the wall as she moves too close, and she speeds along the asphalt, listening to the sound it makes as she goes, slowing to avoid tipping. _What would happen to a tipped robot_?

"Doc…"

Her voice isn't her voice, and the letters and numbers carving their way up her line of sight speed up.

"Doc…"

It takes effort, but somehow she understands she's processing information, rewriting her own code.

"Doc. Tor."

The voice lightens, but is no less robotic.

"Doc. Tor!"

The vibrations have lessened and she recognizes her own voice. Clara moves out onto the main street, looking at the people and robots passing her.

"Doctor!"

Her head rolls from side to side.

"DOCTOR!"


	5. Museum of the Missing

Historical Monument to Robotronics Advancement

Being honest with himself, sometimes he prefers when they wander off. Sure, it's not the most elegant way of finding the problems, but his companions are nothing if not perfectly suited to get themselves into the very middle of trouble. And he's absolutely sure that this planet has trouble.

It was palpable, the wrongness of things, and when he loses Clara after they exit the monorail, he can't help but momentarily panic. Like a father losing a child in a convenience store – he worries about what mother would think. Or rather, Clara's family. Despite what he knows and what he wants, there's always that thought, buried deep, very deep, in the back of his mind: _what would their families do without them_.

He supposes it comes from the same place that knows he has no family to wonder about him. Maybe, occasionally, he entertains the thought that the Ponds do. _The Williamses, _he forces himself to correct.

Somewhere in time they sit about and ask themselves, "I wonder what the Doctor has gotten himself into these days?" They'll joke and they'll convince themselves that he'll work his way out of any problem, but everyone knows one day he won't. He also buries that thought away in the deepest part of his mind.

_One day_, he won't.

"Clara?" His voice breaks despite himself as he looks around at the people going about their visit to the moon and the robots offering to help. "Clara?" He thinks he sees her back inside the station, being pushed along with the crowd – the red of her top disappearing into the muted colors.

_She'll be fine_.

He reassures himself and smiles to a robot who asks how he may be of assistance. The bot is normal, perfectly man-made, and leaves when he waves him off with a buzz of his Sonic. The Doctor knows she knows they were to head to the museum – he presumes she knows she should head there still, even if they're separated. And he walks on towards the tall building, so much closer now than when they had arrived, with a small pang of fear in his heart that he refuses to acknowledge.

It's the same for them all.

The doors to the museum are too tall, incredibly tall, and he can't help but marvel at them – as though built for a goliath – and he has to speculate as to what's inside. He knows what the brochures say and what his general knowledge contains, but what could have warranted them creating such large doors? Was there something gargantuan inside he hadn't anticipated or read about? Were the receiving servers this large? Would the elevators be? Or was it simply created larger than life to appear larger than life and inspire the wonder he now felt soaring through his veins. He smiles to himself, of course they would be larger than necessary to create a sense of awe.

Every inch of the museum would be created with the universe's inhabitants in mind and the robots that constructed the building would have considered the histories of each civilization and they would have come to the conclusion that every civilization in every inch and nook and cranny of the universe would, inevitably, be consumed with size. The Doctor chuckled, slipping through the large doors and gliding along with the others entering the building, and he makes his way towards the front desks.

"Welcome to the Museum of Autonomic History. An Historical Monument to Robotronics Advancement. How may I be of assistance, sir?" The robot behind the counter in front of him was structured to look like the perfect replica of a man, it's shade adjusting with each new visitor and he waves his Sonic at it, scanning it, before it repeats, "How may I be of assistance, sir?"

"I'm looking for a friend, she's about yay tall," He holds a hand near his chest and glances at it approvingly before continuing, "And _should_ have arrived either shortly before or shortly after myself – answers to the name of 'Clara'."

"Might I suggest searching Lost and Found?"

The Doctor nods, pointing in the direction the robot is pointing, and then moves out of the line towards the doors at the end of the lobby space. When he enters, he is surprised to find a very human man, looking humanly exhausted, behind a desk filling out paperwork in a rush, one hand pushed roughly into his bright yellow hair.

"Excuse me," the Doctor proclaims, "I seem to have misplaced my companion."

The hand at the man's head comes away and a small stack of papers are thrust in his direction. "Fill this out in triplicate and we'll contact you if we find anything."

"I'm sorry?" The Doctor glances down at the paperwork in front of him.

He flips through the documents quickly, reading over their titles and frowning. APPLICANT INFORMATION, PHOTO SUBMISSION GUIDELINES, DATE OF LAST INQUERRY, SECONDARY REQUEST FOR MISSING PERSONS APPLICATION (To be Completed Upon One Year of Time Missing), DEATH CERTIFICATE REQUEST (To be Completed At Applicant's Leisure).

Pressing himself against the counter, the Doctor tells the man sternly, "Hello, I'm looking for a friend."

"Fill out the forms," the man drones back.

Settling the papers down on the table, the Doctor leans in closer, watching the scribbling of the pen in the man's hand and he asks quietly, "People go missing often, I take it?"

The head comes up and a pair of grey wary eyes search his before he pleads, "Just fill out the forms."

"I hate forms," the Doctor replies in a sickened tone. "Bureaucracy and red tape and nonsense." Then he adds bluntly, "Who searches for the missing?"

"You've got to be kidding me," the man tells him. "Look around – I'm sure you'll find some robot squad scouring the streets."

"Actually, I've seen no such thing. A robot looking for a missing person would be asking questions, would be documenting evidence, would be doing something – I know about these things, I'm fairly experienced in them – but every robot I've encountered seems merely interested in looking for the found and what they can do to _assist_ them."

The face in front of him seems pained, and the Doctor understands – no one was looking for the missing and this man takes the brunt of the anger over that, whenever someone figures out that is the case.

"Look, just fill out the forms. We can get a poster up at Transit Authority and another here at the museum. If your _companion_ turns up, we can give you a call."

"What's your success rate in finding the missing?"

"What?"

"How many go missing in a week?"

"I'm not…"

"Who do you report to?"

"Who are you?"

"I'm someone looking for a friend and I'm not filling out any paperwork."

The man drops his hands down against the desk and shakes his head. "Fine, search the museum – chances are if your friend isn't _truly_ missing, they're here looking for you. Everyone ends up here somehow or another anyways."

The statement is curious and the Doctor nods slowly, shifting and stepping out of the office and back into the flow of traffic heading in through the turnstiles of the museum. He lifts the psychic paper and is allowed entrance without a ticket, greeted as the Head of Internal Robot Inquiries by the bot receiving the tickets, and he is ushered towards a set of elevators. Asking a robot where he might find the receiver room, he is lead towards the fourth elevator and he enters with very few people – surprisingly few – and they begin their ascent, quietly sniffling and patiently waiting.

When they exit, it is into a hallway of offices on one side and a glass wall that separates them from a maze of ceiling high black boxes with blinking lights and small electrical pulses. He can hear a voice-over coming from a station nearby telling them that what began as a beacon out into the universe to draw stranded robots together became a storage facility for information.

The memory, expanding and upgrading through technological advancements, makes it possible for a thousand years of information from a billion galaxies to be stored on a chip the size of a human fingernail. It's impressive, the Doctor considers as he casually peruses the room, occasionally running his Sonic over the parts to see their origins and their storage capacities.

"Sir, I'm afraid you cannot do… whatever it is you're doing." The voice is stern and semi-robotic and he turns to find a rolling robot coming towards him, looking as official as a metal bot can look and the Doctor smiles. That didn't take long.

"I'm sorry," the Doctor apologizes with an air of falseness. "I was examining the specifications. Got carried away. A bit of a techno-geek," he tells the bot, wrapping his hands and grinning foolishly. "This room is storage, how would I be able to see the actual receivers."

The bot is quiet a moment, analyzing him, before telling him, "This floor, and the three above it, are storage, the receivers are on the top level, but only high ranking officials of this planet – and dignitaries with special allowances – are permitted."

The Doctor flashes his psychic paper, and the bot stares, then looks up at him. "Permission?"

"I am the proprietor of this location, ruler of this moon, and head of the cyber-network of robots inhabiting it." The robot lets the information sink in. "Your psychic paper may have fooled lower level robotics at entrance level, but they do not fool me. State your title and purpose, sir."

"I'm the Doctor and I'm trying to discern what's happening on this planet."

"Explain." The robot requests.

Cocking his head slightly, the Doctor asks, "Why are your robots so unhappy? As their ruler and head, you should be concerned about the well-being of your citizens – are you not?"

"But I _am_ concerned. You presume too much, Doctor." The bot rolls to his side and turns towards the hallway. "I will give you a tour of the receivers; answer any of your questions. You should understand that a ruler cannot please all and that we are working at an acceptable capacity for ensuring the welfare of the citizens of this moon."

The Doctor follows, cautiously sizing up the bot in front of him, absolutely certain – because he was entirely familiar with the guise – that he was up to no good.


	6. Exploration and Reception

Clara finds herself lost. Utterly lost. And she's at a loss for how her mechanics even work.

She keeps bumping into walls and other robots and, unfortunately, unsuspecting people who take her photo and admire her color or inquire about her model. And she has a hard time answering. She would feel her cheeks burn if she could feel her cheeks. She wants to yell at them to leave her alone and she wants to yell at them to help her, but her voice box seems to be malfunctioning and the words that emerge are garbled and nonsensical. Usually replaced with whatever she's been programmed to say and then she wanders off, embarrassed and frustrated.

_Oh isn't _she_ a funny thing!_

Because her red color and feminine design means she must be a female robot.

_I remember this model._

Apparently it's not that old, but not exactly current.

_I used to have one of these things._

Stop touching me inappropriately!

She feels her body trembling and the thick aluminum making up her outer shell shakes violently against the parts inside, causing a young boy to run away crying and Clara isn't sorry. She's absolutely terrified.

Rolling into a corner, away from the busy street, she backs as far as she can into it and tries to calm herself down. She tries to imagine what the Doctor would do and she manages a quick internal giggle because he would reprogram himself, build himself a new Sonic Screwdriver, and he would take over the planet while managing to procure a bow tie for his tin neck.

And he'd be gleeful about it because he'd be _a robot_.

It's enough to give her a semblance of peace as she understands that she IS a robot. She IS programmable. And she IS in charge of her programming. Or at least she will be. Clara delves into the lines of code, trying to understand them. There's some tucked away knowledge in the back of her mind that was put there by the Greater Intelligence when she'd been uploaded and she pulls it to the front, unleashing it on the processor her robotic body has, amplifying it. And it clicks. She creates an illusion in which she's simply driving a machine, in which she's simply strolling along inside of it exploring the world and she animates it. Opening her eyes, she can see her arms, the flick of her dark hair when she shakes her head, and she sees the controls – a computer terminal she understands completely.

"I'm driving now," her robotic voice announces, and she jumps to the seat before the controls and begins hammering out commands, searching out the memories embedded in the cache, and she finds herself. Rewinding her previous encounter, she records and analyzes her own voice structure, and she mimics it, humming out into the street until the cadence is just right and then she charges forward.

The Doctor would be at the museum. The Doctor would know what's going on – or at least be on his way towards that knowledge. Or at least he'd be looking. Clara settles on the fact that he'd be looking, some semblance of a plan forming in the back of his complicated mind, and she steels herself against the crowd and her own fear, knowing if she could find him, he could fix her. Definitely, he'd be at the museum. Yeah, that was the fact she would depend upon – he'd be there and he would find some way to fix her.

She wasn't going out like this.

Not inside of some robot.

The Receiver room is on the top floor and he has to contain his excitement. He's never been in this room, on this moon, at this time. He can't recall ever being in this room, on this moon, at any time. Those moments are the best treats – when he knows this is the first time he will lay eyes on something – and he wonders if he'll ever return to see how it's turned out. He hopes that this all turns out well because it would be smashing to bring someone back here when things are less… suspicious.

Of course, when had he landed in a time or a place that wasn't teeming with suspicion?

The doors to the elevator open and the special key hole that the Master Bot had been jamming an appendage into, sorely requiring the Doctor to refrain from elevator-bot procreation jokes, closes as soon as the clip reinserts itself into the shiny body to which it belongs. He's tempted to scan it with his Sonic, supposing he has to return later, there has to be a setting that'll open it right up and give him access to all floors, but he knows if he does, it'll set off alarms – not literal ones, just the ones inside this paranoid bot's head.

The Doctor follows the bot as it leads him through another set of monoliths that reach up into a glass dome through which he can see the foggy sky.

"The air processors, are they running at their full capacity?" He asks, before adding, "What shall I call you, by the way, it seems rude to continue to ignore formalities." He hopes to gleam some clue, jog some mechanical tidbit from the back of his mind, but the bot simply answers,

"X5-Beta452."

"Beta," the Doctor repeats. "You were once a test bot?"

The robot wheels back around and stares and the Doctor gets the impression he's being scanned again. He wonders not only what for, but whether he should be preparing for some kind of attack. Most being didn't scan for fun – himself excluded, of course – and he finds himself examining the bot back curiously.

There's nothing spectacularly unusual about the outer shell, though its shape reminds him eerily of a Dalek and he has to chase the thought from his mind to avoid the sour look he could feel working its way over his features. The bot wheels to the closest monolith and gestures at the screen of incoming information.

"We receive at the highest rate in the galaxy and are expecting an upgrade next week to accommodate even more streams of information simultaneously."

"Why do robots transmit here?"

"It is what we are known for."

"But why here? Why at all? What's the purpose?"

"Knowledge, Doctor."

"Knowledge that you don't share," he points out.

"We share what is necessary for the advancement of our society; we share with those who offer accommodations in return."

"Spare parts."

The bot seems appreciative. "We need to survive. This moon is not entirely suitable to the materials of which we are composed."

"The atmosphere generator?"

"Our atmosphere will never be entirely cleansed. Between the waste of the mechanisms that keep the moon running, the influx of debris in their various forms from the ring on which we sit, as well as the acidic gasses constantly erupting outwards from the planet around which we revolve, the results we _are_ able to achieve with the generator are quite spectacular. But it also creates a system of constant moisture."

"Which is not good for the parts."

The bot shakes his head.

With a shrug and a look of impassiveness, the Doctor suggests, "Why not find a better planet? There are billions of stars in the universe where a civilization such as yours could prosper."

There's a quick laugh, or at least the Doctor thinks it's a laugh, and the bot replies, "Location."

And the Doctor understands, "If you change yours, the whole system falls apart."

"The system was established quickly and grew from more humble bot origins. We've been extrapolating a plan to transport – piece by piece, over time – the planet's transmitting resources elsewhere, but the fault in that plan is that in that time some other planet could feasibly take over our superior placement for robotic transmissions and history. Other planets are already trying."

"And you'll lose your status as _the_ place to be for robots and those looking for robots, and the plethora of information stored here."

"Location," the bot repeats.

"Tell me then, Beta," the Doctor asks with a grin. "Why are the robots so sad? I've encountered a lonely bot or two in my time, but they are generally programmed to be – well – chipper, ready to serve. Eager. Enthused. And an endless supply of adjectives that uplift and inspire. But yours seem upset, or at least what should be the more advanced bots seem upset, and there's no rational explanation for that."

There's a moment of silence and the Doctor waits, impatiently until the bot tells him, "I have not been privy to such displays of emotion from the bots, but I will dispatch an inquisitorial squad to investigate."

"Like the one that investigates the missing persons?"

There's another pause. "I assure you, we are searching. Perhaps through avenues a flesh life form like yourself cannot comprehend." And then comes the question that's now consuming all computing power in the bot as he skims through archives, finding dark spots where information should alleviate his concerns, "Who are you?"

He smiles in response, "I'm the Doctor."

"Doctor who?"

His smile widens, because he does love when they say that, but an alert goes off before he can continue. An alert coming from the bot itself that informs him that there has been an unauthorized entrance into the building, and the Doctor perks up because he knows it has to be one Clara Oswald.


	7. Clara Versus the Museum

Following the conversations around her, Clara makes her way towards the large building and approaches the entrance, wheeling up the ramps installed for bots of her type, and she enters through the oversized front doors.

Ridiculously oversized, _who designs these things, _Clara wonders to herself, zooming in on faces at a pace faster than she could ever dream of processing if she'd still been in her human body. _This_, she smiles, _has its advantages._ Rolling forward, she is stopped by a tall metal guard with a blue painted body, who barks,

"You are not authorized to enter this building."

"What do you mean, _not authorized_?" She demands in response and she's pleased with the sound of her own voice and the looks she receives from those around who declare she must be a special model to sound like she does.

Like a human.

And then it pokes her in a socket and she feels a seizure rip through her parts. It's electric and burning red, a warning signal pulsed through so as not to disturb the people and other creatures walking past. But definitely sending a message to her.

_Robots not specifically programmed to assist this facility are not permitted within the confines of the building except at the request of the Head of Security, on the orders of the Head of State_.

Clara rolls away, physical head lobbing slightly in a circular motion around her metal body while her imagined one throbs in pain, and she turns sadly towards the doors. She came all this way and she'd have to stand outside, just hoping the Doctor would eventually exit and find her – if someone didn't snatch her up before then, or ask her for assistance.

"Wait," she laughs. "I have a laser somewhere in here, don't I?" She searches her database and finds it, lifting a flap on the metal casing's shoulder to reveal a small black tube that locks onto the robot in front of her.

"Cease and desist all weaponization," the guard warns, and the people around start to scatter.

Clara turns and bellows, "Oh, won't want a little taste of your own metal, would you?"

The guard begins to pull its own weapon and she fires a single red beam at it. The patrons around her shriek, and the crowd parts as she shoots a second burst directly at the guard's face and advances.

She just had to make it past this guard and into an elevator. She could patch into the system there and locate the Doctor using facial recognition software she feels is lurking just behind her newfound knowledge of radio wave transmissions. But there's a loud set of stomps to her right and she turns, looking towards them and sees the guns aimed in her direction.

The blast isn't as painful as she imagines it should be, but it's enough to knock her backwards and something tells her she might be missing a covering. And there's the slight nagging notion that she might die inside the shell of a robot that she tries to ignore as she squirms on her side as a rush of footsteps greet her. Turning her head slightly, she looks up into the odd face and the floppy hair and she hears the familiar whizzing that accompanies a wave of green light.

"Definitely not a happy bot," the Doctor tells her before turning to look at the larger robot that is making its way towards them. "Is this how you keep your citizens in line?"

"It weaponized," came the unified response from both guards.

Beta slows to a halt beside them, "Doctor, we cannot permit the use of weaponry except to maintain order. This bot actively challenged the museum guard for entrance – entrance she knows she cannot have."

"She?" The Doctor turns to look at the red bot lying on the ground, trying to maintain consciousness. "She," he repeats, as though it were somewhat incredulous. "She just wanted to get inside," he finally finishes.

"Robots not specifically programmed to assist this facility are not permitted within the confines of the building except at the request of the Head of Security, on the orders of the Head of State," Beta tells him with an air of aggravation. "I certainly have not invited this bot into the facility. It is hostile and will be destroyed."

"No," Clara manages.

The Doctor turns quickly back to her, to her voice, eyes widening before he scans her again and straightens, "No, this bot will not be destroyed; she will be purchased."

"I doubt you have the currency…" Beta begins.

"I have knowledge," the Doctor interrupts. "That is sufficient currency."

The patrons around have begun to resume their way into the museum, as though nothing had happened, and the Doctor waits for Beta to agree. He scribbles a diagram and formula onto a sheet of paper he's offered, and when Beta receives it, he glances up at him curiously. As curiously as a robot can look, and the notion intrigues the Doctor as he stands protectively over the red bot still on the ground.

"Who are you, Doctor? How are you in possession of such knowledge?" Beta asks, looking from the man to the bot and back again, his curiosity turning to suspicion.

"I'm a connoisseur of knowledge, Beta." The Doctor gestures at the paper, "This will amplify your receivers without the need for additional equipment – is this sufficient for this bot?"

"This…" the robot responds with hesitation, "Would be considered a vast overpayment for the purchase of such a simple robot, sir."

"This is a unique robot, holds sentimental value," he responds sadly, looking down at the dimming eyes that are still watching him. "And I shall consider any overpayment due in some fashion at a later date."

There's a pause during which the mechanics of the robot rumble and a nearby printer rattles out a paper and Beta rolls quietly over, taking the sheet and an accompanying card in one of the hands at the end its short metal arm and holds it out to the Doctor. "The bot is yours, Doctor, and your additional credits – they can be used anywhere on the moon."

"Thank you," he mutters, folding the sheet and pocketing it with the card before watching Beta and the guards slip away into the crowd. Turning quickly, he bends before the bot and works to lift her, straightening her and eyeing the damage done while Sonic'ing it to assess her.

"Doctor," Clara manages, and she watches his smiles spread.

"Clara," he tells her knowingly, then spurts excitedly, "You're a robot!"

Less enthused, Clara demands, "Doctor, why am I a robot!?"

"An actual, proper robot," he continues, hands quickly extending before they delve into the exposed wiring and circuits at an attempt at repair.

Clara shocks his hand away angrily, spitting, "But WHY am I a robot?" Then the light in her eyes brighten as she adds, "And where is my body?"

The Doctor stands, looking towards the elevators. "Good question."


	8. Secrets in the Parts

He gives her a boost of energy via his Sonic and she's able to follow him back onto the monorail where he explains what he's learned in that rambling way that he does, but she's too preoccupied with her situation to even listen.

Maybe before she'd been driven with survival, knowing if she could just get herself to the Doctor, he would find some way to fix her on the spot – a wave of his Sonic, or some clever words; she hadn't considered the Doctor would be more interested in the process than the reversal.

_Of course he wants to get you back to your body_, she chastises herself.

It's halfway over the ramp to the center console that she suddenly finds herself too tired to move and when he finally turns and sees her stalled there, he jerks, rushing to her side and giving her a quick once over with the Sonic.

"Clara?"

She hums in response.

"Your power cores must have been damaged," he asserts, lifting her off the ground with a grunt to bring her closer to the center. "You should shut down for a bit to conserve resources while I work on the damage."

"No," she tells him clearly. She's terrified of shutting down.

What if she shuts down forever?

"It won't be forever," he assures her knowingly, in a soft tone that conveys all of the concern he's been pushing beneath the surface. He absently strokes at the cold metal face in front of him and Clara wishes she could cry because she longs to feel those fingers delicately soothing her. "It'll be like a short nap, I promise."

"Doctor…"

The metal exterior feels nothing, but she's aching on the inside. He nods to her, his brow creased roughly, as though there were something else on his mind – something painful she knows he'd never admit to; something she knows would be pointless to ask about – and she sighs in acknowledgement.

Slowly, she searches her systems and she tells them to sleep. She flips the switches in her imagined world and she lies down on her comfortable chair and she closes her eyes. It's quite pleasant and she drifts easily into a dreamless sleep, listening as the Doctor whispers, "Everything will be fine, Clara."

Watching the light of her eyes dim and shut off with a slow moan of protest, the Doctor moves quickly under the console to grab a tool box and an armful of spare parts he's picked up from around the galaxy and he returns to drop down cross-legged in front of the Clara bot.

He smiles sadly as he works, soldering off a broken piece of her main compartment carefully before beginning to work on the burnt wires inside. He's aware, _acutely aware_, that if he does any further damage she could be permanently lost, and he tucks his hair behind his ears as he sets a pair of familiar rounded glasses on his nose to sharpen his sight.

"This is why I tell you not to wander off," he explains quietly, then shrugs, "Though in all fairness, I should have been at your side and not so keen on exploring the city. So it's partly my fault. Maybe it's always partly my fault. I suppose it is." He replaces a set of wires and pulls free a board to examine each connector for damage.

"At least it's not Dalek," he quips, tapping her exterior lightly with the back edge of an actual screwdriver. "But you did make an excellent Dalek," he adds, pushing his lips together in amusement for a moment at the memory.

"Soufflé Girl," he laughs. "The genius who made an entire race of super soldiers squirm so badly they called upon their greatest enemy for help."

He plucks a few components off and replaces them; setting the board back into her chest and welding it into place neatly. And he looks over the rest of the parts, jamming the Sonic in for a look and finds something curious. Something he shouldn't be seeing because it's been outlawed, though he has had encounters with it before, and he flicks a switch, watching the antennae that rise up from two thin slots on the robot's head.

"You clever girl," he laments.

The bot's tag disappears with her and the Doctor into a blue box that registers as a ship he's never catalogued before and it makes him both irritated and curious as he commands the surveillance cameras to pull up all footage of the day for the Doctor. He traces him back to the monorail entrance and back from there to the transit authority where he's exiting the same blue box with a small woman. Beta tracks the woman and finds that they were separated and she'd followed the small red bot into an alleyway for transfer.

"Find me this woman," he tells the machine.

In a series of flashes, he sees his city. He sees the rusted metal of the furthest reaches inward to the sparkling surfaces that surround the building he sits. He sees the robots that stand waiting command, the ones zipping about looking for answers, the few driven mad who bang regularly against the same spot until they finally cannot move, their eyes going dark in defeat.

Then he sees the woman with the deep red dress walking calmly amongst them, hair bouncing readily off her shoulders as she smiles out to the darkened skies. Beta searches for a method of communication until he's able to boom over a loudspeaker,

"Come to headquarters," he orders, then adds calmly to her hesitation, "Immediately."

She gives a short jump at the sound and glances around momentarily, but Beta knows she knows. All recent conversions are to head back to the museum for documentation. The ghost memories would still be there, packed away in that human head, and they would tell him who this Doctor is. And he needs to know. No human would have the knowledge he so readily handed over.

It isn't long before she's arrived, offering a heavy knock on the front door of his office before hissing and glancing down at the reddening surface of her skin as the door opened on his command.

"What is the meaning of this?" Clara asks, raising the skin for him to see as she enters his office.

Beta growls, "It's human skin – and it is fragile." Then he barks, "That body is fragile! Why choose it?"

"Why choose children?" Clara responds, her lips dropping into an annoyed frown. "Some of the others chose children and you've yet to disapprove."

"I disapprove of this face," he tells her, lifting a metal arm in her direction. It isn't the features – which are actually quite favorable – but the frown, the look of dissent. No other face has held such a look. It makes him paranoid because it reminds him of the possibility of rebellion – something that should have been programmed out of all of the bots on the moon.

"I cannot change it," she spits.

Beta wheels around her, examining the contents of the body and he is pleased that she is healthy and strong and will, if all goes to plan, be an excellent vessel for the bot mind currently inhabiting it. Coming to a stop in front of her, he asks, "Do the remnants remain?"

With a small bop of her head, she informs him, "She wants to perfect her mother's soufflé, and is worried about two children named Angela and Artie and is concerned that something called a 'Tardis' will jettison her into space when she least expects it..."

"Tell me about the Doctor, her traveling companion."

Clara goes silent, searching out the whispers in her mind and she tells him quickly, "He is old. Has traveled the universe. He is her protector, guardian… occasional boyfriend?" Clara lowers her head and laughs unexpectedly. "That's a silly thought," the words escape – a remnant of her original subconscious – and Clara shakes it away, searching for a moment before turning to Beta and telling him blankly, "He is a Time Lord."

"Time Lord?" Beta repeats, the words igniting a storm of hidden data. It's an incomplete history, but there's enough, transmitted over the cosmos, for him to know that the mind within that ridiculous head was what he's been searching for. His eyes glow red and he tells Clara, "I want his body."


	9. Claradox

Clara's imaginary world smells like bacon and she furrows her brow at the scent, some involuntary memory impulse, shifting on the plush chair until her eyes begin to open and she looks over the Tardis console on her imaginary screen. It's bathed in an teal tint – its usual tone – and it's humming lightly, vibrating underneath her regularly. And she gets an idea. Rolling forward, she hits the edge of the center with her head before examining the surface in front of her.

_Scan. I need to scan_!

The screen she's created lights up with a plethora of boxes and circles popping up and slipping away, the information downloading into her consciousness automatically. She's not sure what to make of the calculations and assumptions in the flurry of data, but she jettisons forth a projectile that attaches to its edge and she grins when something sparks and responds and a yellow flash paints the Tardis walls green.

Clara can hear the streams of engine thrusts and wobbles running through her head and she sees the images flashing, so fast, so very quickly, over the screen she watches. Images of Tardis schematics, the different ways the room has looked, and glimpses of the man at its center, maneuvering its controls through hundreds of years.

The screen goes dark and Clara jerks away.

"This information is not for your eyes," comes a voice just behind her and she turns to see herself standing there, hands clasped together in front of her, image flickering slightly.

"Hologram," Clara understands.

"Sharp as ever."

With a sigh and an eye roll, Clara raises both hands, "Truce. I'm calling a truce to whatever madness this is between us."

The Tardis-Clara stares at her acutely and Clara watches the tight grin that grips her lips before she gives a quick shake of her head. "You are under the impression that I will reveal information that you perceive the Doctor is hiding from you."

"I actually wasn't sure there was something he was hiding, but thanks for letting me know," she replies with a satisfied nod.

There's a quick instant where she realizes she's hit a nail on the head, but the Tardis-Clara recovers by telling her calmly, "The Doctor has his reasons for what he withholds and what he reveals."

"Gotcha," she agrees. "But you, locking me out of the Tardis, giving me the stink eye – and don't think I don't notice the change in your color when he's not looking – and the changing corridors when I have to find the toilet…"

The smile fades into something more natural, and somehow more sinister. "A game, Clara."

"Not a very nice one."

"I'm sorry you don't approve."

"I work with children; I'm used to an occasional tantrum."

That seems to anger her counterpart, but she just continues watching. "It is not a tantrum when it is justified."

"You acting like a jealous girlfriend is justified?" Clara laughs. "You're the Tardis; do you know what you mean to him? He _pets_ you, for goodness sake!"

"And you are human, do you know what you mean to him?"

"No," Clara tells her honestly, smile flickering away, "No, I don't know."

"At this juncture, he is consumed with solving the mystery that is Clara Oswald."

Shaking her head, she replies, "I am no mystery. I'm Clara. _Just_ Clara." Then she adds, "Why does it matter to you anyways? If I'm a puzzle, he'll solve me – he always does, or at least I imagine he does with how clever he happens to be – and then he'll drop me back at my doorstep and float off into the stars… with you." Clara steps forward, "Are you this way with all of his companions, or is it just me?"

"You are outside of my acceptable parameters," the Tardis-Clara responds blankly.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You are impossible," she tells her blankly and Clara's heart freezes for a moment because she's heard the words before. _The impossible girl_. Of course, she took it to mean that she was out of sorts, hard to deal with, and she readily accepted the term, but… clearly it was something more. "Oh dear," Tardis-Clara declares. "Too much, he would not be pleased."

And there's a pinch that sends her falling back against the chair and suddenly she feels dizzy and confused and she's alone. She's forgotten something, and can't find it again. Clara rolls into the seat and looks back to where there are several bangs against the grated floor and then a set of legs go flying over her. She lets out a sound of protest as the Doctor continues around the console and out of sight as she retracts her probe back into the metal casing at her chest.

"Robot Clara," the Doctor calls out.

With a groan of frustration, Clara responds, "Don't call me that, my name is _just_ Clara."

"And you're a _robot_," he swings out to point at her.

"Yes, and that means I am currently in possession of a laser pistol."

"Are not…" he begins, but the words are cut short and he barks, "Oh, shut up and get your metal can over here."

She should be insulted, but it amuses her and she moves around to stand at his side, looking up at the computer monitor she can't quite see. Glancing down, he shifts the screen and taps it roughly.

"What am I looking at?" She asks brightly.

"Life on the planet." He points again.

"Why are we looking at life on the planet?"

He smiles, "Because this is all life on the planet. All life. Robotic – synthetic; actual – real living people; and everything else – people trapped in metal." He toggled through the three readings and explains, "I went outside, found a couple of robots lounging around, looking to _assist_, to get their data, and then I scanned your biometrics now and compared them to ones I'd done before…"

"You've scanned me before?"

The Doctor nods nonchalantly, "Oh, I scan everyone aboard my Tardis at some point."

"You scanned _me_ with your _Sonic_?" She repeats in shock.

"Didn't you hear me, I scan everyone," he tells her, a look of confusion painting his face.

She bumps him as she shouts, "But that thing could give me a mutated head or something."

"Well, you're a robot, so no chance of that," he manages with a grin.

She zaps him, "You don't just scan people without their permission."

"To be fair, you were unconscious!" He points out loudly.

"Oy!" She shouts.

He raises his hands and shifts away from the small prod glistening with electricity, "You were unconscious in your HOUSE, _the Maitland's house_, when you were uploaded into the data cloud. The one at The Shard. And I stopped it! I downloaded you back; saved your life! I ran a quick scan to make sure." He presses against the railing at the edge of the main platform as she stops, "I saved your life; I just wanted to be sure they weren't still," he pokes at his temples, "In your head!"

Clara's glowing eyes dim slightly as she rolls back and turns towards the monitor, "So there's a difference, I take it." She eyes him, waiting for an answer.

He stares, something between shock and fear wrinkling his face before he offers, "Yes, if I were to scan you inappropriately… well… I wouldn't, but if I did…"

"No, Doctor – a difference in what you picked up? Is there a way to tell the difference between a robot that's just a robot and a robot that's done the brain swap thingie with a human?"

"Ah," he smiles, shoulders relaxing, feeling reassured, "Yes, yes there is a difference."

"Well, what is it?" She asks, then adds quickly, "Can we find my body?"

"There's a molecular shift, an energy dump – or a lack of energy, depending on what side of the transference you're on. The human soul and the robotic soul aren't cross compatible with each other's body so they give off a rather different heat signature in each other's bodies, as opposed to their originals."

"What side of the equation am I on?"

"You're going to have an occasional discharge," he warns, looking down at her peculiarly. "You managed to blow off some steam back at the museum when you attacked the guards, but I would say you're due for another blast of energy in about," he checks his watch, "Another twelve hours or so."

She practically growls her response, "Well aim me at the bot responsible and I'll be more than happy to give him what's coming."

"I suspect this lessens over time, but it's still observable in a scan." He smiles, then bends next to her, "Clara, we need to find the others."

"Don't you remember? I've got a laser thingy," she asserts proudly. "Comes out of my shoulder. We don't need others; we're fighting robots in human bodies!"

He nods, then tells her solemnly, "And if you shoot a human, someone might be left without a body to transfer back into."

Clara feels defeated as she understands. "I don't want to be in this tin can anymore." She fights the shaking deep inside, the anger and the fear. "It's like I don't know where I am." She looks up at him. "I have to create this illusion that I'm just sittin' in a room controlling this body, but if I forget that for just a second, it's cold and lonely and I don't want to be in here."

Her voice is shaky and she is staring up at him, watching the features on his face contort as he's at a loss for words – not something she witnesses every day.

The Doctor lays his hands on either side of her head and he nods, wanting to imagine his fingers curled around her ears, pushed into her hair. He wishes he were staring into those fairy tale eyes of hers and looking at her foolish grin, but he touches his head to the cold metal for a second, unshed tears balancing on his eyelids as he promises, "We'll get this straightened out, Clara."


	10. Searching for Life in Mecchanica

Clara swivels away from him and leads herself down the ramp to the doors, waiting there for him. The Doctor blinks and then wipes at his cheeks, forcing a smile as he sets his Sonic to detect the human souls in the robotic bodies and he joins her. They move out into the quiet evening landscape and he can tell she's activated something because there's now a set of tubs sitting on each of her shoulders, red lasers pointing out over the smokey space in front of them.

"Clara, don't shoot… anything."

She smirks, "Finger's not on the trigger."

"Well, it's not a literal finger. It's a command. A simple thought could set it off."

She turns to look at him and the beams meet his chest. Clara frowns at the expression on his face, the notion that she could accidentally actually shoot him, and she plugs them safely away within her metal. She watches him as he turns back to the robots frozen in place and scans them, shaking his head at her.

"How?" She asks.

"I'm sorry?"

"How are you going to fix this?"

"It might not be prudent to reveal the plan," the Doctor tells her, eyes finding the camera tucked neatly in a corner, red light bright as it follows them.

"So you have a plan?" Clara asks brightly, surprised.

He shrugs and responds plainly, "When don't I have a plan?"

"You never have a plan," she grumbles.

His hands come up in frustration and he waves them slightly, telling her, "Well, I always have some _semblance_ of a plan! Can't account for all of the variables at once."

"So you _don't_ have a plan," she surmises.

"I have a _semblance_ of a plan," he reminds.

"_Semblance is_ _not a plan_," Clara hisses.

He points, "It's almost a plan."

"It's not even _remotely_ a plan!"

"Clara," he calls.

"I'm just pointing out that having a plan might be more practical than _almost_ having a plan given our current predicament! Or any predicament, actually…"

"_Clara_," he repeats.

"And I'd honestly like to know what your plan is in this instance, because I'm a bit frightened and a lot unsure and anything you could tell me to squelch that would be entirely appreciated."

He places a hand upon her head and tells her quickly, "Clara, we're not alone."

"Oh, I feel _loads_ better now," her weapons remain calm though as they stand and watch the bots that are rolling out towards them apprehensively. "Who are they?" Clara whispers.

"How?" One asks in a garbled voice. "How?" It repeats.

"How _what_?" The Doctor asks.

"How. Speak. How?" The robot rolls to a stop near Clara and repeats, "How Speak?"

"They haven't been able to override their programming the way you have," he explains, looking at Clara. "How _did_ you override your programming?"

"Total screaming genius," she allows, gaining that pained look from him _again_ that she chooses to ignore, _again_, before telling him, "Got the extra stuff from the Shard, remember?"

"Yeah, but…" he waves it off and he turns away a moment, some thought on his mind before he looks back at her and tells her, "There's Wi-Fi here, use it to relay the instructions to the rest of them. They can stop _assisting_ and start _existing_." He wears a proud smile and she makes a noise of frustration at his smugness in return.

Clara punches into her coding and finds the Wi-Fi. She must have disabled it as a precautionary measure, probably because since that little incident with the Shard data cloud, she isn't too trusting of the wireless sources around her.

The lines run up on her screen and she sees all of their connections, waiting for her. Clara shifts in her chair and she types feverishly, sending out bits and patches and she watches as they receive the information and begin implementing it. The bots seize up in a frenzy of upgrades and autonomy and then it's silent again in the dark.

"We should move somewhere more… discrete," the Doctor tells them, glancing around at the cameras that are watching their movements, eagerly.

They turn, more smoothly than their advance had been, and they lead the Doctor and Clara through the metal alleyways and the Doctor notices that some bots are more rusted than others. Some bots, he knows, have been stuck for a very long time – chances are, longer than their bodies have been prancing about the surface of the moon, and it saddens him because he knows in that moment that there are some within their ranks that he cannot help.

At least, not in the way he would like.

Two bots approach a door and each extends a rod that connects into a socket at either side of the door. There's a humming and then the door slides upwards, allowing them entrance.

The Doctor stays beside Clara as they move inside, and he smiles out at the rows of glowing eyes, interspersed with sections of darkness.

"This is where you're hiding," he calls out. "Let's see the lot of you." He raises his arms and glances around, waiting, and the lights flicker on. It's slow, section by section, and the grin on his face fades as he begins to understand. "You've been here a very, very, long time, haven't you?"

It's some sort of auditorium, or it had been, and each level is stacked thick with robots. Most are smaller roll-able models like Clara's bot, but a few are two and three, and even four legged walkers with full arms and more humanoid features scattered about. He begins to count, but it's a staggering task. He can see an area that's piled high, parts falling or missing, on robots that haven't been active in ages – their outer cases rusted with spots of reddish brown and black.

"We are lost," comes a small voice, "Can you help us?"

Their sadness becomes his sorrow, and Clara watches the spirits drift from him the more he considers what the room means. She sees it as well and it chills her to the core. Some have already perished – their bodies used for spare parts to help the others continue – and she registers the signals still connected through the Wi-Fi. They bounce back through those invisible tethers to begin calculating their date of origin, or rather, their date of upload. It's enough to make her heart break as she looks back to the Doctor and sees him lick his lips gently before nodding, but he remains silent.

Clara shifts closer to him, raises a heavy arm to touch his knee in the closest gesture to a hug she can give him in the moment and he glances down, sadly smiling at her before saying, softly, "Of course I'll help you."

The bots murmur amongst themselves and one approaches, "How did we come to be this way?"

Touching Clara's head gently, the Doctor tells them, "They used a technology that's outlawed, it's called a Psychograph and is capable of removing one's essence from their body, or whatever vessel they happen to inhabit, and it grafts it onto, or rather, into, another. All of your units have been retrofitted with them and they were used to transmit your soul from your living body into this robot shell while the robot – having no other place to go – replaced you in your body. Of course, the units were set to self-destruct upon usage, so…"

"So there's no way to transfer us back the way we came in?" Clara asks, her voice shaking slightly.

The Doctor shakes his head, then smiles, "But… there's no reason, given that this is the largest collection of robotic technology and information in the galaxy, that the biggest receivers in the universe couldn't be turned into the biggest Psychograph in the universe." He leans back and opens his mouth in a quick laugh, hands clasping together in front of him, clearly satisfied with himself. "Of course, I need access to the receivers. And to scans of the ghost remnants of your biology trapped with you…" He claps his hands together and he shouts, "Well then, form lines!"

She watches, smile set on her imaginary face as she creates a kitchen for herself and begins an attempt at her mother's soufflé recipe while he scans and records each individual. She's confident, unusually confident despite the glitches in the created image of the eggs and milk in front of her. And she burns the soufflé in frustration, grunting aloud and gaining the Doctor's attention.

"Sorry," she calls, not wanting to admit what she's doing because it feels foolish. They're saving a planet full of people trapped in robot bodies; she shouldn't be concerned with her mother's soufflé.

Of course, if his plan – his semblance of a notion of a plan – doesn't work, this imagined stage is the last chance she'll get to get the thing right. _How quaint_, she thinks to herself, her last words could be, "_Mum, I'm in a robot, but I finally managed to make your soufflé, in an imagined world I created to avoid going mad_!"

"Clara, I have a feeling that something is on your mind. Something I don't want to ask about, but it's something I'm going to have to ask you to stop thinking about."

"Why?"

"Because you're scaring the others," he informs her.

She glances at the bots staring, glowing eyed, at her and utters a quick, "Oh."

"Yeah."

"Sorry."

"Just stop making the grunty noises."

"Gotcha."

He nods and goes back to the robots.

"Doctor," she calls, "Is this going to work?"

"Why wouldn't it work?"

She stares at him.

"It's going to work!" He assures, face brightening as he runs the sonic over another bot and waves it away. Then he stops, "Oy, stop implying it's not going to work in front of the bots."

"But is it?"

"No reason why it wouldn't," he admits.

"How are we even going to get into the museum?" Clara asks boldly.

He smiles, "We're going to _assist_."

"Assist?" She questions.

He moves around the room, checking the settings on his Sonic. "We're going to patch in and we're going to offer our assistance and the building is going to let us in."

"We're going to hack our way in," she surmises.

He points, "_You're_ going to hack our way in."

"Me?" Clara spits. "How am I going to hack in?"

"You're a _total screaming_ _genius_," he reminds. "I'm confident you'll figure it out."

_Great_, Clara thinks, _it depends on me_.

"And I have no problem believing you won't let us down." He tells her knowingly, worried look in her direction that frustrates her more than anything.

"Why's that?" She grunts.

"You just won't," he tells her, giving her a rise of his eyebrows and a pet on the head she finds condescending, until he pulls away, knowing exactly what she was thinking by, she supposes, the reddening of the lights in her robotic eyes. He takes a step away and smiles down at her. "I had a robot companion once."

"Really?" Clara perks slightly, curious.

"His name was K-9 and he was _fantastic_," the Doctor grins giddily and moves to the entrance.

Clara zooms forward, "Hold on, K-9? Was it a dog?"

He turns, "Well, yes."

"You're comparing me to a dog? You've had a dog companion."

"He was a robot dog! Not just a regular… he flew, and had laser boom-boom guns… and no, I'm not comparing you to a dog!"

"You look at me in my tin suit and tell me you had a robot dog companion. What's a girl to take from that?"

"That you're a small robot, about the size of a tin dog."

"I'm not a tin dog. I won't be your tin dog."

"I'm not having this fight again," he mutters.

"You've compared other companions to your tin dog, have you?"

Slapping a long hand over his face, he swipes it away and points, then turns and walks away, ready to assemble the army. Clara remains silent – steaming, but silent – at his side, as he begins to coordinate the bots into groups and he explains how they'll approach the museum.

They'll need to travel on foot, through the metal skyscrapers, but not all together and not all at once so as to not gain attention. Clara doesn't bother to point out that there might be a drawback given the level of surveillance because she can see on his face that he already knows.

So she settles on solving the problem herself, something she's gotten used to doing in life, and she begins to work feverishly through the computer system. Clara hacks wordlessly while the Doctor draws out routes on a virtual map one of the bots is projecting in the air and he smiles at the glowing eyes all looking up at him.

He can see the hope that it gives these people trapped inside of these robots to have an inkling that their time of confinement might be coming to an end. The Doctor can't imagine the losses they've suffered trying to work things out themselves with their previously limited capabilities.

Everything just has to work perfectly.

Not a thing to worry about, he assures himself, glancing at the red bot that's shaking her head lightly, lost in her own thoughts.

Well, he considers, maybe a single thing.


	11. Clara Versus Clara

Beta sits, frustratingly plugged into a wall. It doesn't happen often, but it has to happen – being recharged. He watches the cameras that are trained on specific locations around the city and he wonders when the Time Lord would return because he knew he would.

Too much unanswered, too much to be discovered. And he knows the man has a taste for what was going on, if he hasn't outright figured it out already. He understood something was off with the robots on the moon where no one else had and obviously had figured out his companion had been uploaded into the useless red bot he'd so eagerly purchased.

It was the only thing that gave him a twinge of something almost unrecognizable deep inside his wiring. At least, he wants to believe it's unrecognizable, because he knows exactly what it is. It's one of the things that even a basic robot can register because it's the one emotion that doesn't have to be programmed into a bot – it comes with existence.

Fear.

He's done his homework on the famed Doctor and he's read enough to know that he tends to travel with companions – generally beautiful young women. Young women who tend to fall into trouble along the way and while chaos is known to litter the Doctor's path, that chaos is increased exponentially if his companion is in danger. And he eyes the woman prancing about the office, studying her face in various shiny surfaces and giving herself approving smiles, and knows she's the most dangerous thing in the universe at the moment because that's what the Doctor will be coming for. She's what the Doctor would leave the moon barren for.

"Stop your foolishness, girl," he growls.

"This body," Clara remarks, "This body is magnificent!"

"Yes," Beta agrees, "And if you don't stop skipping about, we'll be scraping it off a wall," he warns, the pistols on his hands emerging just long enough for the wide brown eyes to register them and sweep towards a chair behind his desk and sit plainly.

She throws him a tight-lipped smile and works on examining her hands and practicing the art of writing with them while Beta turns to the computer panel at his side and checks on his progress. He's almost completely charged when the computer alerts him to the fact that the front doors have been opened and he begins scanning cameras, dumbfounded, because they are showing him empty landscapes. His eyes go red with anger because he's somehow been tricked.

"You know that was clever," the Doctor tells Clara as they work their way into the elevators in groups of 10. Groups remain on the ground floor, weapons charged and Sonic'ed to work – as they'd previously been disengaged. They had enough juice to blow out walls, but Clara set every bot's laser to 'Stun', just to be safe, and they'd left a trail of twitching robots at the museum's entrance.

Clara spins her head and tilts upwards as much as she can to see the man smiling down at her and she can feel her cheeks burn. Her imagined self shrugs it off as she continues to work at the security protocols to gain access to the doors of the receivers to unlock them.

"This might take a _smidge_ more time," she tells him absently.

"No, but seriously," he repeats, "Hacking in from across the city was brilliant – should have known he'd have been expecting me. Looping the video feed so he wouldn't see us working at the front door?" He presses his fingers to his lips and pops off a kiss.

"Hey, what I'm here for," she tells him nonchalantly, but secretly pleased.

"Yes," he agrees, "To be the genius you are." He looks up, "Now, how long until we're able to get into the receiver room – because I can't really explain what you'd have to do to turn this into a Psychograph and, quite honestly, it might require physical reworking of the electrical wiring, which, actually, given what little we know of the structure, might have benefitted from your original body's tiny… ness."

"Callin' me short again," she snorts.

"Well, you are… tiny," he raises a hand to her bot head. "Still are."

"Shut it," she warns, tapping away and watching red go green on the screen in front of her. She glances back up at him momentarily, catching his smirk, and she zaps him for good measure.

"What was that…" he starts, but the doors open.

His Sonic is out of his pocket and aimed, face dropping the amusement in favor of readiness and Clara rolls out next to him as they examine the hallway, looking for any sign of people or robots.

Turning to look at the other bots that had joined them in the elevator, and were not emerging from the others, they gesture them forward and the Doctor puts a finger to his lips as he listens to them rattling slightly with fear.

"You mustn't make a sound, and be sure of your settings, stun anything living – the body may belong to one of you – if there's no body to return to, you'll simply… disappear."

He knows it's not quite as calming as he'd hoped; some of the bots understand there's no place for them to go. The rattling lessens, but is still there, quietly behind them as they make their way towards the receiver room. And then she rounds a corner – immediately set upon by a dozen red beams – Clara.

Human body Clara.

Staring at her in shock, Clara is at least glad to see nothing had changed in the past few hours. She was rather fond of the dress she was wearing and the handbag still hanging at her hip had been given to her by Artie on her last birthday. She quite liked it and would have been devastated if this thing had done anything to it.

Actual Clara smiles at them as she stands there, hands clasped in front of her, giving the Doctor a nod before she asks, "All going according to plan, Doctor?"

"All's well so far – how are you liking your new casing?" He asks, voice lowering slightly in anger.

_Don't get mad, Chinboy_, Clara thinks to herself. _You do stupid things when you're mad_. "Doctor," she warns.

Clara lifts an item in her hand, "Do you know what this is?"

He smiles, "Pulsar gun – you plan on using it?"

"I might be," she assures with a malicious grin that gives Clara a funny tickle in her stomach. "I could probably take out a few of these bots before you could Sonic this out of my hand and, you know, I might hit you along the way – or blow a hole in that pretty red bot beside you."

"This what it's like? Havin' an evil twin," Clara huffs at the Doctor. "Doors are open, by the way, just past her on the left."

"Just gotta get past her without shooting her, or her shooting us," the Doctor informs her. "Should be easy – I doubt she wants her body harmed either."

"It's not _her_ body!" Clara declares roughly.

Actual Clara smiles down at her and points the gun, "Oh, sweetie, it is now."

The Doctor points the Sonic and in a blast that leaves him with his face pressed up against the wall at his right, both Actual Clara and robot Clara are lying on the ground. He shouts out in terror, turning and falling next to the red bot with a new sparking hole in her chest.

Clara's world is filled with smoke, and she's lying in her chair feeling exhausted, but she manages to mutter, "She missed."

"No, Clara," he tells her, fingers hovering over the wound before he lifts the Sonic to it to survey the damage.

"Well, she didn't miss – _hit me right in the bloody chest plate_ – but she missed everything important. Just took out my lights is all… just have to re-route power…"

He touches the smooth surface at her face and stands, moving slowly towards the woman on the ground on her side and he takes a long breath, preparing himself for the worst. Her eyes are closed and there's a blackened singe mark that mirror's the bot's he'd just left. Bending slightly, he runs his Sonic over her and reads the object with a single light laugh.

"Stunned," comes Clara's quiet response from behind him, "I wouldn't kill myself; not _that_ brave!"

Standing, he turns quickly towards her, satisfied smile on his face and bellows, "Alright, doors open, defend against anything that enters – Clara," he moves to her and shifts her upright, "Clara, are you ok to move, I might need your technological assistance inside."

"Ready to _assist_, sir," she responds weakly in amusement.

"Oh," he makes a face, "Don't call me sir."

"Yes, Doctor," she corrects, testing her power supply. She sheaths her weapons and sighs as she powers them down, knowing it leaves her incredibly vulnerable, but now she can roll forward behind the Doctor, towards the room just behind her body to the right. But she's confused and asks quietly, "Doctor?"

"Yes, Clara?" he whispers.

"Don't you think it's a bit… easy?"

"I reckon so, but occasionally I suppose something could just be… _easy_. I think maybe I deserve a bit of _ease_ from the universe every once in a while."

"Or it could be a trap," she warns.

"A trap," he shrugs slightly, lips smudging together in an awkward frown, "Could be."

"Are you deliberately walking into a trap?" She asks, regaining enough energy to sound annoyed.

"Am I walking into a trap?"

"Doctor!"

He turns and spits, "Possibly." He shakes his head, "Possibly we're both walking into a trap. We're all walking into a trap, but traps," he smiles, "Traps can be brilliant."

"Traps can be brilliant – only you would think that."

He touches the door, pushes it slightly to peek inside at the room that hums angrily at them and then he enters, wedging the door to allow them both entrance. They move inside, examining the monoliths on either side and Clara grunts, "How can a trap ever be brilliant?"

"When you get what you want," comes the gruff voice from across the room as Beta wheels out from behind a server in front of them and, in a flash of blinding light, his Psychograph goes off.


	12. Doctor Robot

"Oh," the Doctor declares in an astonished tone that is muted by the reverberation of the voice box in his steel throat. "Oh Clara, I am trapped," he finishes, words garbling out slowly.

The robot lets out a series of chuckles and Clara wheels forward quickly to the large dark bot in front of her, turning her head once she arrives to see the Doctor – her Doctor – marveling at his body and pressing his hands through his hair. The man tests his clothes and fiddles with the Sonic before tossing it down and twirling, stopping himself with his arms out to steady himself.

Stupid grin plastered on his stupid face.

"Doctor?" Clara asks the bot containing _her_ Doctor's soul, staring at it in shock.

"Clara, I'm a robot!" He coughs harshly, "Hold on, why can't I…"

She finds his Wi-Fi connection easily, but instead of simply sending off a packet of information, she takes the opportunity to have a private chat. With a devilish smile, she hops up and jumps through the door that appears in her world with an odd noise in response from him and she finds herself looking at the console of the Tardis, where he is waiting patiently.

"Seriously?" She questions, hand coming up to gesture at the room, glowing a brilliant blue.

"What else would my imagined world look like," he retorts, looking less than amused. "Help me sound like me; I can't be properly menacing sounding like a mechanoid."

"I don't believe you could sound properly menacing ever, at all," she responds, watching him wrinkle his face at nothing in a look of contemplation that molds into easily into agreement.

She gives him a slight shake of her head and then works on his voice. With a thought, the world around them fills with code that he stares into, a look of boyish amazement gracing his features and she tinkers with it, moving pieces with her hands and inserting coding with waves of her fingers. It's surprising, even to her, but she wields it knowingly.

Clara smiles at him as he narrows his eyes at her and declares, "Now you're just showing off."

"Fancy?" She raises an eyebrow.

"Yes, I do," he tells her, sounding slightly infatuated, and looking tickled.

She manages a quick giggle before pushing the last piece of code into place and then planting her hands on her hips to look back at him, "So, Doctor, just you and me here – you know when you said you had a plan? Was this part of the plan?"

He nods to her, "Absolutely."

"Are you lying to me?" She challenges.

"Absolutely."

Clara sighs.

He won't want to tell her and ruin the surprise – the grandiose – so there's no point in asking. She moves gracefully back through the door of the Tardis, landing in her chair with a humph. Looking out through her own bot, she concentrates as the Doctor's bot raises its arms at Beta and then drops them.

"Plan, eh?" She mutters to herself.

"Beta, love the new look," The Doctor offers, obviously pleased at the sound of his own voice. "And I'm not just being vain because it's my body, my outfit – My Look… but come on, you gotta admit – the bowtie is _cool_."

"I could do without it," Beta responds, looking disgusted as he grabs at his neck. "Restraining in a way the metal never was."

"The metal," The Doctor repeats, bowing his head. "You know what's clever about the metal? It's a great disguise, a great hiding technique – you never know what the metal is thinking because its face never changes. Always staring straight, smiling or stoic, depending on how it was built, and you never know what's going on behind it. What cruel plan or nasty thought lurks behind that motionless stare…"

"The same could be said for those who created us. Worse! Molding a shell and giving us that spark of life and then applauding themselves as we assist them, calling us invaluable, only to leave us to rust or be torn apart when we've served our purpose," Beta tells him. "If you're lucky, they take you for parts after you've been shut off," he spits, then adds more delicately, "Do you want to know what a bot feels, Doctor, when they're ripped limb from limb, while on, because their creators fail to understand what they've created?"

Clara gets the impression the Doctor already knows the answer as the question slowly comes, "What?"

"_Agony_!" It echoes through the room and the Doctor's body turns to see the bots in the hallway, staring in through the glass door, some of their human counterparts standing over them with more pulsar guns. Easily frightened into submission – the thought of the damage they could do to themselves overpowering. Clara watches the small rise and fall of her own body's chest as it breaths, separate from her. It stings her stomach.

"It's not real," the Doctor tells him quietly and Clara finds herself looking up at him – wasn't that the purpose of their visit? Was he lying – he did lie, he was good at it – or was it the awful truth? "Robots cannot feel, even if they are programmed to believe they do."

"I can feel the anger, I can feel the sorrow…" Beta growls.

"But you cannot feel the pain." Raising his arm to bang against the server at his side, he continues, "The physical pain. What you think you feel is _fear_, it's the panic any created thing understands as their time in the universe is coming to an end."

"Is that not pain, Doctor? To know that your lifetime of servitude ends in a pile of broken parts?" Beta paces slightly, raising a finger towards the glass doors. "We've known of this technology for a long while, Doctor, but because of the illegality of it, it was difficult to obtain the parts – the quantity of parts necessary – to bring our plan to fruition. And none of us will be tossed aside when our voice boxes are damaged, or our circuits are fried. We will live the existence we were denied in our metal forms."

Shifting sideways, an effort to lean against one of the large receivers that ends in an awkward grunt of frustration when he realizes he can't, the Doctor postulates, "But why not repair? This planet has all of the raw resources to fix anything, to improve upon the design with which you were created. You could create a new era of robots that are indestructible…" the words slip away from him, and Clara knows he's thinking of something painful that remains unspoken before he finally asks, "Why transfer your soul into a human body? A human body withers, it decays."

"Metal rusts; it crumbles into the ground – forgotten." Beta tells him plainly.

Raising a solid arm, the Doctor asks, "That's what this is about? You want to be _remembered_? More than acknowledgement, you want to know that you will be remembered when your last day comes."

"Doctor, doesn't everyone?"

"That's what this is about," he repeats sadly, "– you feel forgotten? Abandoned because you're _only_ robots. Robots are notoriously replaceable whereas all of your intellectual data, all of your collected knowledge tells you that living beings are not? So you choose to swap yourself into a form that is actually less reliable, less resilient, with the simple hope of _being remembered_?"

"Greatness cannot be achieved by an object."

The Doctor snorts a laugh. "I've got plenty of objects that have achieved greatness. You threw one of them to the ground just a moment ago that I would dare you point at any foe in the universe and not receive a shiver in return."

The man gestures at it with a look of contempt and then raises a finger to point, "They fear you, Doctor – not your weapon."

"Doctor," Clara murmurs, beginning to toggle between typing furiously and shifting the floating formulas around her, watching him raise an arm in her direction in response. "Doctor, plan?"

"The plan," he smiles to himself, "Yes, the plan."

Beta looks from one bot to the other and his lips curl in anger, "What _do_ you plan to do, _Doctor_? Destroy me?"

"Well," he laughs, "I do have a pretty good set of cannons hiding somewhere around here."

"And then your body is lost," Beta spits back.

The Doctor raises his weapons and laughs.


	13. Reboot, Reset, Restart

The Doctor laughs again and Clara doesn't understand why it's amusing. She finds herself slightly terrified as she watches the coding she's looking at adjust – another set of keystrokes from another set of hands – and she looks up at the bot she can imagine is winking back at her despite its unmovable face. Clara pushes the keyboard aside and rushes back into the Tardis.

"Oy, back in your bot," the Doctor shouts at her, swinging his own code around. "Wait, I'm being brilliant, might be better with an audience." Then he shakes his head and makes a face, "No, I need you over there."

"What are you doing?"

He gestures, "Can't you see?"

She looks up, "Reconfiguring the receivers."

"I need my sonic. The scans are saved in it."

"On it," she smiles, closing the door just as he grins up at her. Clara falls back into her seat and she checks into her own coding, magnetizes her left hand and reaches out with a quiet, "Accio, Sonic Screwdriver."

It wiggles slightly, gaining the attention of the man standing a few feet away, but before he can shift forward to grab for it, it flies deftly through the air and hits her metal hand with a rough clank that elicits a hiss of pain from the Doctor at her side, as though she'd wounded his puppy.

Clara quickly stabs it with a probe that sinks in through the cracks of the different parts of its outer casing and attaches to the mechanism. For a quick second she's seized by a surge of energy, opening her mouth to shout before it passes, accepting her and allowing her access to the information inside.

It glows a bright green and creates a haze that fills the room and she's stunned momentarily by the volume of data condensed in front of her.

Faces and sounds flicker around her in small bolts of electricity and she catches bits and pieces, a small laugh escaping her in wonder before the doorway to the Doctor's chamber opens roughly. The Doctor enters, parting the information with his body as he searches out a small cube, barely the size of a lump of sugar she'd use in her tea, and he races back with it, hand stopping himself at the door.

"Clara," he tells her gently.

Shaking her head slightly, eyes wet with tears she doesn't quite understand as she looks down at the keyboard in front of her and nods, "Private, gotcha," and she removes the probes despite the intense desire to look further. Glancing up at the receiver coding, she gets an idea and bites at her lower lip, racing to create a program, knowing she probably doesn't have much time.

The Sonic remains attached to her side as Beta approaches, hands finding his waist, menacing smile curling on the Doctor's face. He lays a hand upon her head and looks to the Doctor, "What is your plan?"

"Mostly to continue talking," he responds quickly, "Villains are _generally_ right on the monologueing, but they're also not doing much else and that's where they go wrong – you've always got to have something else happening while using the monologue as a distraction."

The look on Beta's face shifts and his grip on Clara bot's head tightens, "What are you doing?"

The receivers at his side start to pop and light up and the Doctor lets out a short laugh before telling him, "I'm doing the _something else,_" the Doctor tells him. "You made one mistake, Beta. No!," he shouts, pausing to lift an arm, "Two. The first was you choose to take my companion – my incredibly brilliant Clara Oswald – and put her into a robot. _Second_? You put a mad genius into another."

"Doctor, what is the relevance – you are trapped and I am free! Free to travel among the stars! To see the universe I've only experienced in a cascade of data. I might even take your Tardis – and yes, Doctor, I know of your magic spaceship, and there's even the inkling still floating around in this body, of how to fly her."

Making a face of disgust, the Doctor calls, "Did you not hear me? You took my Clara. And I'm a _bit_ mad." He plugs the cube of condensed data into the coding and it expands, images and locations beginning to register on screen and he smiles, satisfied as he executes the final command.

The receivers brighten and their humming begins to vibrate the ground underneath them. The Doctor wheels away from the closest receiver as he continues to stream data over the wireless network into all of them and he pops his head through the door to give Clara a good laugh and a quick, "Whatever it is you're doing – because I know you're doing_ something impossibly clever_ – now would probably be a good time to upload."

She can't help but giggle despite her anxiety, pressing the final buttons and moving towards the receiver to shoot a probe into the machine and begin to load the data package. It has to be direct, to go out with what the Doctor is sending, and the response is instant. Clara drops the keyboard with a gasp of surprise, watching it dance on the ground in a sparkle of letters and numbers that frighten her and she runs for the Tardis door when the ground trembles.

The Doctor meets her there and shoves her back. "I want in!" She tells him quickly.

"You stay out!" He responds in a shriek.

"Doctor!" Clara growls, pushing at the door.

"If you're in here when the change occurs, you might end up trapped in my body with me!" He informs her in a rush of words before she stops pushing and the door slams shut between them. Clara falls forward, hands shooting out to take hold of anything and she finds herself clinging to a wall, eyes shutting tight as the tremors become more violent.

"Stop! What are you doing? _What have you done_?" The bot in the man bellows and they both glance up at him as his attention shifts from the receivers to Clara.

Beta reaches to take the Sonic and Clara raises an arm, manipulating her shell with a thought and she zaps him roughly. Recoiling, he lifts a foot and begins to kick the smaller bot and Clara shouts out in response as she's shaken to the ground and, as she tries to stand, the façade fades and she's staring out at the Doctor's body.

His face is twisted with rage and she supposes he's worked out what they'd done – or at least what the Doctor had done – and she fears the continual damage being done to her before she's transferred back into her body.

"Doctor?" She asks as her vision goes blinking red and the information streaming on her screen begins to denote all of the functions going offline, irreparably damaged.

The man in the robot is laughing, his voice become less and less the Doctor's and more and more robotic and she tries not to panic as each strike of the man's foot kicks loose another bit of her insides.

And suddenly there's a shock of pain.

It's at the center of her chest and she lifts a hand to the spot, unable to bend the solid arm to touch the warming sensation. Then the room outside of her vision drifts away and she's dropped into darkness. Clara falls unconscious with a slight moan of surprise.

The body kicking the bot slows, then stops, and then jerks upright. The Doctor keels over on his hands and knees with the jolt of the relocation and looks down at his fingers, flexing them to test them and his right hand whips up quickly to catch the Sonic that has dislodged from the red bot's body as it demagnetizes.

He raises his head to look at the larger robot, standing still beside the receiver just a few feet away and he waits, turning slightly to see the group of people just outside the window starting to shake their heads and stumble, regaining themselves as the bots in front of them go dark.

The receivers are shrieking.

They were sending a message into space, calling back the minds of robots long gone, and sending the minds of humans out to bodies that no longer existed. He knew they would cancel out – disappearing into the ether of the universe and at least the humans would be at peace. And they were also reuniting those who remained and he wanted to smile, but his sight turned to the woman lying on the ground just outside the glass doors.

The bots near her had powered down to reboot for the exchange, for the upgrade, and the humans were beginning to understand that it had worked. They were sharing embraces with those who they'd hidden alongside and eagerly walking back towards the elevators.

The Doctor stands and looks to Clara with pang of anxiety because she's motionless, yet the transfer should have taken already. He looks back at the badly beaten bot behind him and back to her and understands that for her… for her it may have been too late.


	14. Return Policy

Pushing the Sonic back into his coat pocket, he moves slowly towards the doors, feeling the exhaustion in his body from the beating it had given Clara's robot.

The Doctor swallows hard as he nears the doors, fingers delicately touching the handle before he pushes through and kneels at her side. She's breathing softly, as if locked in a dream, and he rolls her onto her back over his knees, cradling her neck in his left arm. The blast she'd given herself had smoked the fabric of her dress at her chest and he could see bits of the reddened scorch mark blemishing the skin underneath.

"Clara," he whispers, moving her hair out of her face while smiling down at her. "Clara, _come on_, come back to me."

Her eyes move under their lids and her face contorts slightly, looking somewhat confused and just a little pained, but he waits patiently. Then her lips spread happily and he's looking down into the dark eyes that flutter open to stare at him sleepily before her mouth forms an 'o' of discomfort and she lifts a hand to her chest, wincing when flesh touches flesh.

"I'm human!" Clara manages in a hiss of surprise, "Actually, _properly_ human again!"

"Yes," he replies with a satisfied, yet saddened, grin and a grateful kiss to her forehead, "Actually, _properly_ human."

"I shot myself," she groans then.

Helping her sit up on her own, he doesn't let go, hands testing her arms and elbows as she shakes away the drowsiness that accompanies the switch.

"You stunned yourself," he corrects with a light laugh as she blinks away the last of the disorientation.

"Hell of a shot," she argues, trying to look down at the burn.

"I could take you to a place where they could patch that up," he begins, but she's already giving him a look that tells him _Wednesday is over_.

She'd want to be taken back to the Maitlands, she'd want to have a few days rest – a few days to remind herself that the real world didn't include robots switching bodies with humans – and he'd have to wait for the next adventure, or at least to her it would be a wait.

"Shall we?" He asks, fingers slipping over her skin to take her hands and he shifts up, helping her stand and steady herself.

Clara's face brightens then, eyes widening as she looks over at the bots all lined up before moving shakily towards the glass that separates them from the still-working receivers. "The Psychograph? Wouldn't they be able to…"

"Make it again?" He finishes, watching her nod. "Burnt out the parts – same as they did on their own. They'd have to build it from scratch, if they think to…" he lets the sentence hang in the air as he waits, seeing the devilish smirk she's wearing now. "Come, _clever girl_, what were you doing?"

"Full system reboot," she answers sharply. "Every one of them. Base programming."

His mouth drops open, "That'll set the moon back years. They'll have to relearn, readjust..."

"I didn't say I gave them back their _own_ base programming," she teases.

Pressing his lips together, he tries hard not to ask, but he can't, he blurts, "Ok, whose base programming?"

"Museum tour guide," she turns to tell him, sharing a small laugh. "Got it from the receivers here and just plugged it into the outgoing transformation – they got it with the switch."

"They're all tour guides," he says aloud, but it saddens him and she notices, leaning against the wall to watch him bow his head and shake it slightly. "Stripped of whatever humanity they _had_ to _save them_ from the humanity they _had_," he tells her softly.

"Have I done wrong?" Clara asks apologetically. "Should I have…"

He raises a hand and smiles sideways at her, "No, you did what was necessary. I would have done worse," he admits as he rolls back on his heels and looks up at the robot beginning to stir inside of the room.

Clara understands that he would have destroyed them to avoid any chance of them doing it all again and she moves closer to him, curling her arm around his to lead him towards the elevator. They move down quietly, past cheerful people who greet and thank them, and soon are back out amongst the skyscrapers and glossy streets making their way back through the city on foot, reveling in the changes in architecture and the darkening walls around them until they're in the dampness near the Tardis.

"Awfully long time for _you_ to be this quiet, Doctor," Clara finally tells him, feeling his arm give hers a squeeze in response as he grins and chuckles softly.

"These robots are created, they're given life, and then their creators walk away when they tire of them or when they've outlived their usefulness. They end up in the trash, or a place like this, fending for themselves, looking for a place to belong again." He sighs, "How do we reconcile that they are no less alive than we are? How do we convince others?"

Clara watches his free hand pat hers against his arm, "Do we never look at artificial intelligence as more than a programmed machine? I find that hard to believe, that in all of the universe, there isn't a place where the robot is revered."

He grins and shrugs, "I suppose there are places, hidden in the galaxy…"

"Your home planet, for starters," Clara offers with a knowing smile that he returns. "The Tardis isn't just some machine, she isn't just programmed bits. I know she's a ship, but I know she's alive." Then she wrinkles her forehead and asks, "Why did you tell that robot that its feelings weren't real?"

"They aren't."

"But you told me they were real; how can it have a soul and not really feel."

"It can be programmed to think it feels – to register the differences in the physical manipulation of its outer casing but –" he pauses for a sigh, "It can't truly feel a knock on the head. But it can feel, or understand, a broken heart – a broken soul."

"So why do you pet the Tardis?" Clara challenges.

"She's different," he asserts.

"_Special build_," she repeats from earlier.

"It's possible she's no different from any of the robots on this planet; maybe I want to believe she feels in a different way. That when she responds to the touch she's not merely responding to programming – I haven't the inclination to think otherwise, actually. After all of these years and all of these adventures… everything she's done for me – it would be rather insulting to think of my Tardis as simply a machine." The Doctor gestures at the blue box in front of them, its light pulsing like a beacon for them, and he nods, telling her quietly, "She's far too illogical for that."

"Oh," Clara snaps, "I know," and she pouts without explaining.

He sighs, looking angrily at the Tardis, "_Just what did she do_? I could have a talk with her!"

Unraveling her arm, she shakes her head and she glances up at him, "I'd like to go home, Doctor."

The right door to the Tardis springs inward and they exchange a quick look that she drops first as she heads into the box, hand coming up to rub at her forehead.

Entering after her, he watches her walk up to the console and press the butts of her palms against it, staring up at the slowly circling words above, the hint of a smile flickering over her features before it's lost to some unknown sadness.

"What's wrong," he asks her, closing the door behind him and inching his way towards her, unsure.

She turns and swipes at the tears on her cheek and shrugs. "Just thinking about my mum. It's ridiculous."

But he thinks maybe he understands. The Tardis cares for him and his companions in the way a mother would, and Clara misses her mother. He holds the railings that lead up to the Tardis console, keeping his distance for the moment.

"If you could have swapped her into a robot, she would never have died, not really," he tells her softly. She gives him a quick nod and her cheeks go red. "I suppose that's what Beta meant – would one go so far for their robot. Would one _even think it_?"

"You'd go so far for the Tardis," Clara says quietly. "Farther even."

He lowers his head and joins her, shifting a blue lever and flicking a set of switches as he looks up at the rise and fall of the cylinders before him and he admits, "She was human once, for just a short while – made a point of asking if humans were all _so much bigger_ on the inside."

"Oh, the irony," Clara whispers, not questioning his words at all because he lived in a world where it was absolutely possible, and she finds her fingers are now slowly stroking the metal underneath them. It was her world now too, at least for a time. "Can I…" she starts, but raises her eyes to find a knowing stare looking back at her solemnly. "Of course not," she gives a shake of her head, "She's dead; she's gone and that's that."

The Tardis growls angrily and Clara rolls her eyes, "What did I do now?" she begins to ask, but the engines give a lurch they both recognize and she can hear the distinct whirls and woops of their departure. Clara and the Doctor are thrown apart, both clawing for something to hang on to as the Tardis takes control.


	15. Clara, My Stars

"No!" The Doctor scolds, "The paradox! The possible…" the words are cut off with a swing of the ship that leaves him pressed into the railing at the edge of the console area.

"WHAT?" Clara shouts, "WHAT PARADOX? _WHERE IS SHE GOING, DOCTOR_!?"

And they land with a boom, and then silence.

Clara looks to the doors and then turns back to the man who's peering cautiously between the two women – his companion and his Tardis – and he lowers his eyes to the ground as though he knew exactly what stood outside those doors.

"She'll be outside," he warns her. "You shouldn't go outside, it could create a…"

"Paradox," Clara finishes, eyes widening slightly at the realization of what had happened.

She glances up at the sea colored glow of the walls and slowly moves to the doors, holding the handle lightly in her hand as she presses her forehead to the wood. She could stay inside, she could… but she's there. Giving the door a tug, she opens her eyes to a windy autumn day and sees the woman seated at a park bench several yards away, '101 Places to See' propped open against her enormous belly.

"Mum," she mouths and she's tempted to throw the door closed and run as far as she can into the Tardis, but she steps out and numbly walks to the bench, gesturing down when her mother glances up, "May I?"

Her mother gives her a warm smile that melts her and chills her all the same, "Of course, of course!"

"I noticed your book," Clara explains as she sits, raising a hand to point and feeling foolish.

"My mum gave it to me as a girl," Ellie nods. "One day," she lays a hand down on her stomach, "One day I hope she'll have it for her own."

Clara nods, fighting the tears in her own eyes, "I bet she will, and she'll love it."

"That's kind of you," Ellie laughs, sighing and closing the book.

"Did you ever go?" Clara asks, voice caught in her throat. She'd never thought to ask before.

With a small shake of her head, Ellie tells her quietly, "No, no, other things kept getting in the way."

"She'll go," Clara assures, "Your daughter will see one hundred and one magnificent places. More than that, she'll travel so far and so brilliantly she'll see places no one has even dreamed of."

They stare at one another for a moment, Ellie – she knows – sizing her up, trying to read her and then there's some strange sort of recognition in her eyes and Clara turns away. She can see her mother out of the corner of her eye trying to find the just right thing to say and Clara stands abruptly.

"I'm sorry, too far," Clara mutters. "I just, I just have a feeling is all."

The woman still seated is still watching her as she moves around her and begins to walk back towards the Tardis quickly, hands bunched nervously at her sides. She can feel her eyes welling up. She could have hugged her and run. She could have asked her about the weather.

She could have said a million things and listened to her talk for hours on end, but maybe that's why this isn't something that's generally done. Paradox. It's dangerous to go into your own timeline – she's heard him say it in passing before.

"Clara!"

She stops dead in her tracks when her mother calls her name and instantly she flinches, turning just before she reaches the Tardis to see the woman is standing, book cradled against her chest in both arms. And the woman laughs, shakes her head, and she declares silently,

"Oh my stars, it's impossible."

"Nothing is impossible!" Clara calls back shyly.

She can see the questions forming on the woman's face, can almost hear the thoughts rushing through her mind as she begins to walk towards her and Clara meets her halfway, shaking her head. The woman reaches out to take one of her hands and it sends a quick shiver down her spine as she closes her eyes and remembers the last time she'd touched her.

They'd had a laugh together, they'd been happy.

"Clara," the Doctor warns, head poked out from the Tardis, and he waves awkwardly at them.

"He your…" Ellie starts.

"No," Clara replies quickly with a nervous laugh knowing the woman's suspicions. Then adds, "I dunno... not quite – hard to explain."

"He's in a phone box," Ellie says plainly.

"Ya," Clara says slowly, "Long story. Sort of our... mobile," she mumbles, thinking back on when they'd first met with a touch of red staining her cheeks.

"Mobile?" The woman questions.

"Long story," she manages, feeling awkward.

"Tell me," Ellie coaxes enthusiastically.

Clara lets her head fall to the side and feels her lips quiver as she utters, "I can't. I shouldn't even be here. We shouldn't have come. I just…"

"Clara," the Doctor repeats, this time sternly and she understands.

"We have to go; you can't see us go."

With a hearty laugh, Ellie releases her and it strikes her heart like a dagger. She shifts forward, but stops herself before the Doctor shouts,

"Clara, don't – the proximity to yourself, it could…"

"Paradox, I know!" She hisses back.

Ellie looks between them and smiles, "Say what you will about him," she tells her with a tip of her head, "Are you sure that's not a snog box."

Clara lets out a bellow of a laugh that surprises her mother before she raises a nervous hand to her mouth to cover it and she shakes her head. "No snogging, mum, not… no."

"None at all?" The woman sighs. "Such a shame."

She wipes at her eyes. "I just wanted to see you, it feels like forever – with the travelling."

"You travel," she smiles, glancing down at the book before placing a hand upon it. "You will travel," she touches her stomach. "Wait, you travel," she twirls her finger slightly.

"Time, space," she whispers.

Her mother gasps in amusement, "Oh my stars!"

The words bring back so many memories and she watches the woman who scratches at the back of her neck before shaking her head. "I have to go. Don't tell anyone… Just know I'm fine, I'm good, and I love you. So very much."

Ellie gives a nod and Clara can see sadness in it, maybe some understanding – why would she travel to see her in the past if she could pop into her living room today – but she shakes it off and nods again with a tight smile, "I'll see you soon then."

Clara looks at the sky and then down at the belly between them, "Yup, fairly soon."

They laugh together and Clara turns, rushing towards the Tardis where the Doctor is standing at the controls, watching the woman walking away through a monitor. "When she's clear, we'll go," he tells her quietly.

With a set of quick nods and a sniffle, she makes her way back to the center and stands at his side to see her mother glance back once before laughing to herself and leaving the park. The Doctor starts the engines and Clara stares at the equipment in front of her. She feels the warmth of tears flow over her cheeks, but she ignores them as they roll off her chin and splash onto the metal. The room goes loses its greenish tint and goes a brilliant blue and then there's only clear light. Clara looks up to the Doctor's sad smile and she falls into his side as he opens his left arm and then wraps it around her shoulder.

"Sometimes I feel she's more alive than any of us," the Doctor tells her softly. "Feels more deeply than we can ever imagine, and empathizes in a way we'll never understand."

"Thank you," she whispers – not to the Doctor, but to the Tardis.


End file.
